


remember it's ruin to run from a fight

by youaremyscience



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:38:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 40,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremyscience/pseuds/youaremyscience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's "suicide," as John and Lestrade try to sweep up the pieces and clear Sherlock’s name, the detective himself is joined by Jane Turner, one of Mycroft’s former allies in an attempt to root out the rest of Moriarty’s network. But there are plans in place greater than any of them know, and when Sherlock winds up kidnapped, it’s up to Jane Turner and John Watson to free the detective, a feat that proves difficult when it’s no longer clear who the enemy is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> summary thanks to suchanadorer

            John had to admit he had no idea what compelled him to do it. He was a (mostly) law-abiding citizen. And he was trying to accept that Sherlock was gone. To work through his grief. To work on accepting that he’s dead, accepting that John might never understand why. It wasn't that he doubted that Sherlock was dead, exactly. He had seen it, after all. And no matter what words he spoke in desperation and grief, he didn't believe in miracles. But knowing something and accepting it are two different things.

            So he worked on accepting Sherlock's death, his questions, his regrets. What he wouldn’t accept, couldn’t believe, absolutely fucking _refused_ to come to terms with was that Sherlock had done this in disgrace. That he was a fraud; that his brilliance had been a lie, that the lives he’d changed and saved were false. He knew beyond any doubt that the stone cold psychopath who’d tried to call himself Richard Brook was James Moriarty, and that he was responsible for this. He was trying to move on, but it was too much. He'd even decided to go see his old therapist again.

            Afterwards, he stood in Baker Street station with her words in his ears, “Those things you wanted to say… say them now,” and he wrote, in small square defiant letters. I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES. He strode away, heart pacing, because he already had an ASBO for graffiti. _Jesus John what are you thinking pull it together_.

            He didn’t think of it again until the next day when he returned to catch the tube. He didn’t take cabs anymore. He stopped in his tracks and felt his heart leap into his throat. Above his own small, carefully printed letters was a bigger scrawl. I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES. He did have fans, after all, and they weren’t likely to all lose their faith in him. Especially not the “my bedroom’s only a taxi ride away” sort. They would stick to their hero if only because they didn’t want to admit they’d been taken in. Still, whoever it was, and whatever their reasons, it made John’s heart lift a bit to see those words.

            And then he kept seeing them. In innocuous places, in bold graffiti, on the sides of buses, scrawled on chalkboards in university lecture halls. Pictures uploaded to the Science of Deduction forums. Honestly, in John’s opinion it was getting a bit out of control. Photos of Sherlock in the now-infamous deerstalker, emblazoned with GOD SAVE SHERLOCK. Pictures of the innocently smiling storyteller, Rich Brook, MORIARTY WAS REAL. John’s fingers went numb at the image of Sherlock, his face bringing back the things John hadn’t said, and the image of his best friend falling, and dark hair wet with blood and ice cold eyes – stop it, Watson. Just stop it.

             He trained himself to turn away, to keep his eyes off these reminders of Sherlock. Even as it bolstered him to know he wasn’t alone in his faith.

  

            John had stopped going to Sherlock’s grave every week, as he had done, and now he went once a month, sometimes less. After that first time with Mrs. Hudson, he always went alone. He didn’t bring flowers and he didn’t speak. Because what else could he say? In the sixth month, he was surprised to find he was not Sherlock’s only visitor.

             “Greg?” Lestrade turned to face John.

            “You behind all this, then?” He gestured at the base of Sherlock’s headstone. The air punched out of John’s stomach as he saw, nestled among several bunches of flowers, buttons emblazoned with the words I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES. A journal was set in the center, the cover a union jack, and the pages were lined with names and messages. Sherlock Holmes saved my life, Moriarty was real, Sherlock was not a fraud, I owe Sherlock Holmes everything I have, Sherlock Holmes was a hero—

             John couldn’t keep reading but there were pages and pages. His legs went out from under him and it was only Greg’s quick movement that stopped him falling down completely. They knelt there, John’s weight half-supported by Greg’s arms around him. He was shaking his head and startled to discover he was trembling.

            “Okay, not you behind it, then, that’s obvious.” Greg said, a half-joke.

            “No… I…I just wrote it, once. And then it got… well, you’ve seen. I guess his fans haven’t given up on him.”

            “Neither have his friends, John,” and Greg shuffled the pages of the journal and pointed to his own scrawl. “Sherlock Holmes was a good man.”

            John swallowed the lump in his throat. “So I guess in the end we were very, very lucky,” he noted, recalling Lestrade’s words from a night so long ago, before John had any idea what was in store for him.

            “I don’t believe he was a fraud, John. God help me, but I don’t. Now if we could just get everyone else to see it that. Maybe starting with my superintendent, yeah?” and he laughed, awkwardly, realizing perhaps that only about half of what he was saying was making its way to John’s brain.

            Because an idea was itching in the back of John’s mind. Something he could do. It probably wouldn't give him answers or anything like closure, which he thinks is an unrealistic idea anyway. But it was something. 

           

            After they parted ways and John nodded, once, quick and curt, at Sherlock, he headed to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had cleaned out a good deal of Sherlock’s equipment but nothing she thought was personal. She’d left it all there, for John, “when you’re ready, dear.” She wouldn’t look for new tenants. It had shocked everyone when Mycroft explained Sherlock had a small fortune from their parents, and had left it almost entirely to Mrs. Hudson, with instructions that John remain at Baker Street with Sherlock’s half of the rent covered by what he’d left behind.

            But the money wasn’t all he’d left behind, and John couldn’t sit there night after night, staring at Sherlock’s empty chair, the skull, hearing the ghost of Sherlock’s violin. He was driving himself insane. So he found a bedsit, at first, then a cheap flat on his own. He visited Mrs. Hudson but never went upstairs. Until now. He needed a plastic bag marked evidence, and he knew that against all procedures or rules, Lestrade would have left it here for him. And he found it, right off, on top of a box of loose notes, maps and indecipherable scrawls from Sherlock’s evidence collages.

            He’d tossed his phone onto the rooftop, right before. It was cracked but the data was recoverable. Sherlock’s “homeless network,” the past clients who kept in touch, everyone who admired him even if they didn’t exactly like him.

            And it pained him to hold the phone, which was so much a part of Sherlock’s identity, but scrolling through the pages of contacts, he realized.

            John Watson had an army.

 

             He was shocked, really, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been, at how very many lives Sherlock touched. And how many people admired him, and were grateful to him, and were more than willing to turn their meaningless graffiti campaign into something real. Avenge his memory, clear his name. John caught himself more and more thinking about Sherlock as if he were a superhero.

      

       John and Greg sat shoulder to shoulder in a pub. Greg had even more to gain than John from making this happen. His own reputation was in question now. He was the DI duped by a fraud. The Daily Mail couldn’t stop with their jokes about what’s next for New Scotland Yard – consulting psychics? Palm readers? Tarot cards?

            So they met, and they knew that while they had a slogan, and a force of people willing to use it, no one’s mind was going to be changed by a graffiti scrawl in the tube station. So it became clear they need to do more.

            John polished off a pint and felt, for one brief moment, like his old self. “People all over this city, all over this sodding country, owe Sherlock Holmes a debt. For their reputations, their wealth, their lives. Let’s start cashing those in.”


	2. Chapter 2

          The first set of pictures stuns him. It’s so very John, he thinks, this sloganeering – like the insufferable blog titles. But for once it doesn’t make him roll his eyes, or scoff. It makes it suddenly hard to breathe. Because here are a dozen photos of buttons, stickers, even a t-shirt. “I Believe in Sherlock Holmes.” And the note which sits atop the photos squeezes his heart. “In case you were wondering what he's been up to – Molly.”

          He’s found himself an assistant, someone who used to work for Mycroft. A quiet, competent woman who called herself Jane. He was loathe to admit it, but he couldn’t do this by himself, and she was quite used to working a job where at any moment she could be killed. Where she was never meant to discuss anything she knew, no matter what harm came to her. As far as anyone could be trusted, someone with her training could. But Sherlock wasn't making friends with her. She was just there to help him while he set about putting his business to rights. Except it would seem that John was trying to do the same thing.

          “Idiotic man,” he muttered, with no heat. Because it did something strange to him to remember John, John who practically saluted his grave, John who reached for him from the street below. To imagine John fighting for his name. To know that John had never doubted him, not even when it came from Sherlock’s own lips.

          But John was playing a dangerous game, one much bigger than he could have any idea. Jane watched Sherlock’s face go stormy and sighed. “Do you ever talk about what’s going on in that crazy head of yours? Or do I just get to continue living in silence?”

          “Silence, actually, and you’ve known that from the start.” Insufferable. 

 

          He didn’t sleep that night, in the motel room which was too small for the both of them. Jane slept with a gun beneath her pillow and kept her shoes on at all times. It was a bit too much of a reminder that Sherlock was playing a dangerous game. He was certain that Moriarty wasn’t the last of it – he would never have given up so easily. _Our final problem_ , the words that swim in Sherlock’s mind constantly. It isn’t solved yet. Moriarty is dead, Sherlock’s fall called off the snipers, but he would never believe it was that easy. He couldn’t go home when there was any chance that there were still bullets marked for John, or Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson.

          But, _God_ , he wanted to go home. He held his fingers beneath his chin in his usual resting pose, but it felt wrong here, in this room so far from Baker Street, from London… from John. He stayed awake, and he thought of three snipers, of a criminal network so vast and complex that even he could barely begin to comprehend how to take it apart. And it had to be taken apart. There was no doubt in his mind that the types of men who worked for Moriarty would not stop obeying their orders simply because the one who gave them was gone. There had to be someone else. Someone who would ensure that things kept operating. Moriarty himself had admitted, all it takes is a few willing participants… he’d have a right hand man. Maybe not one that he valued in the way Sherlock valued John. But a man of his skill could make anyone love him. Somewhere out there was a man carrying on Moriarty’s work, because it was his job to. Sherlock needed to find that man, end him, sever the last of the great web, and then he’d be free.

          _But still ruined_ , and this is why John’s actions were so dangerous. Because of course Sherlock wanted them to believe in him. He could admit his faults, his vanity, and he’d only ever had his genius. Without it, what was he? But he needed to shove these thoughts down, down deeper in fact than any of the others. To most people, this campaign would be encouraging – look, Sherlock, John kept his faith in you. But it frightened him, and made him uneasy. Until this was all over, he couldn’t afford to have anyone believe in Sherlock Holmes. 


	3. Chapter 3

            When Sebastian Moran caught sight of the first piece of graffiti with Jim’s name in it, it squeezed his heart and he came dangerously close to vomiting in the street. MORIARTY WAS REAL. You fucking bet he was. He was real, and he was terrifying and brilliant and he was gone now. Why shouldn’t the world know about this man, this genius, who got Sherlock bleeding Holmes to off himself? Shouldn’t that man be heralded as the fucking inspiration he was? The man who controlled half the crime in the world and got away with it? He wanted to leave it as it was. Let the world know. And if Moriarty being real meant Sherlock Holmes was, too, so be it. They were both dead now, what difference did it make?

            But he had his orders. So he scrawled over it. RICH BROOK WAS INNOCENT. Wherever he saw those sodding Believe in Sherlock messages, he dashed black paint across the git’s stupid face and his fucking deerstalker, and used a broad fingertip to slice through the paint. FRAUD.

            When the anger quieted in his veins, when he was back in their flat – his flat, now – Moran had to admit to himself that although Moriarty was a genius, he hadn’t left any instructions on how to handle this. He’d been poised to kill John Watson, Holmes’ little pet, but the instructions had been: if Holmes hits the pavement, you walk away. He didn’t understand it, couldn’t understand it. Why not just get rid of the lot of them? And this was all the more reason, this little rebellion. John fucking Watson. He itched to put a bullet between those eyes.

            “You didn’t tell me what to do, Jim,” he sighs, and pours himself a drink. “I don’t know what to do.”


	4. Chapter 4

          Of course he knew Sherlock wasn’t dead. He hadn’t worked out how, but obviously Miss Hooper, besotted as she was with his brother, would’ve had a hand in it. When he saw his brother again, he’d never admit that he’d almost been fooled.

         The precise nature of the how and why eluded Mycroft, but the truth remained: his brother lived. And though Mycroft Holmes was not a man generally kept up nights by his conscience, he did struggle with whether or not to inform John. The poor man, so loyal to Sherlock, even now refusing to believe Sherlock’s lie.

          Because it was a lie, of course it was, but a necessary one. Mycroft had warned him from childhood. We have gifts, Sherlock, but we should not show off. People will want more than you can give them. People will not understand. And Sherlock would sneer at him, I don’t care about people.

          But he did. Far more than Mycroft ever did, or even could. More than Mycroft could imagine. He could not fathom the strength it took for Sherlock to allow himself to be thought a fraud, and fall to his apparent death knowing what the world would think. Despite Mycroft’s warnings – caring is not an advantage, Sherlock – he did care, he felt, he valued, he loved. And look at how it cost him everything.

 

          Mycroft continued to call on John, though his response was a typically Watsonian “piss off,” when he bothered to spare words at all. More often he fixed Mycroft with a glare that would frighten a lesser man and brushed past him without speaking a word. But Mycroft had to speak to him, had to get John to see reason. If it meant telling him the truth, a truth Sherlock hadn’t wanted John to know, then so be it. He planted himself outside John’s building and started talking immediately, not giving John a chance to brush him off.

          “Dr. Watson, please. I have reason to believe you are placing yourself, and others, in jeopardy by carrying on with this campaign.”

          John’s shoulders sagged and Mycroft knew he had him there, in the appeal to the safety of others. “Come on, then,” and they ascended the stairs, John with some difficulty, a fact which Mycroft filed away but chose not to comment on at this time. Best to keep John in good spirits.

          “It’s not a campaign, by the way, and it was hardly my idea. Some people just started with some slogans. You know how people are—it’s a fad, it’ll pass.”

          “I still don’t know from where you get the idea you can lie to me, John. If it’s not a campaign, and if it is indeed not yours, why are you suddenly looking into my brother’s old cases? Suddenly contacting anyone of influence who he may have helped in his career?”

          “For my own peace of mind, Mycroft. I don't believe Sherlock was a fraud, and I don't mind knowing I'm not alone in that faith.”

          “Sherlock wanted you to believe that, John. We have to trust that he had a reason.”

          “Do we, Mycroft? Do we have to trust him? The idiot lied to me, and I know it, and I’m not going to sit by and watch his reputation, his life’s work – _the only thing that mattered to him_ – be destroyed!” John was shouting by the end of his speech, breathing hard and had the look on his face that reminded Mycroft that John could be very difficult to deal with, indeed.

          Mycroft took a careful breath. “His work wasn’t the only thing that mattered, John. In the end, it mattered the least.” John just blinked at him. Mycroft took another breath and tried to think of the least painful way he could explain this. “I know Sherlock wasn’t a fraud, of course I know that. So do you. And I have no doubt that Mrs. Hudson, or Inspector Lestrade, or any other number of people share your faith. But think for a moment, John. Why would Sherlock _want_ everyone to believe he was a fraud? Why would Sherlock Holmes – a man who I think we can both agree had a healthy love for himself – declare himself a fraud and leap to his death?”

          “I don’t know. Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that question, time and time again? Jesus, Mycroft. And I still don’t have any answers.”

          ‘What was more important to Sherlock than his name?”

          “Beating Moriarty – I’ve thought of that, but Moriarty was dead before Sherlock jumped, it makes no sense.”

          “Come now, John. Surely you don’t think Moriarty was working alone. It’s my theory, and I’m quite confident I am correct, that there was some threat to innocent lives unless Sherlock jumped.”

          John sat down heavily. “No, that’s not… so he sacrificed his own life for – who?”

          “Well, for you, John, obviously. And probably dear Mrs. Hudson, of course. There may have been others, we’re not confident. Possibly Inspector Lestrade, he meant a good deal to my brother.”

          It sits in John’s mind, on his shoulders, so Mycroft can see it. And he thinks he’s won, but as always, John Watson does the exact opposite thing he could have predicted.

          “Fuck it. He’s gone. He made that decision. Whatever he wanted, he’s lost the ability to get it. Think about Lestrade, for god’s sake – all he ever did was give your brother chance after chance, and now his career’s shot – don’t you think it’s worth clearing his name?”

          Mycroft finds that thought turns his stomach in an uncomfortable way. He hadn’t considered that. This fact must have been evident on his face because John smiled, nothing like his usual smile, more a tightening of one side of his mouth.

          “I hate to put it like this, Mycroft, but you’re with us or against us on this one. Whatever your brother wanted or meant, he didn’t bother to explain it to the rest of us – when did he ever – and he’s gone, now. I always followed him, you know that, but I can’t now. I’m making up my own mind. I’m not letting this go.”

          Mycroft shakes his head. Wants to tell John that he believes Sherlock is alive, but how can he give this man that hope without evidence? How much worse would it hurt if it turns out Mycroft is wrong, that Sherlock is gone, and John alone? He can’t find another word to say, so he inclines his head slightly and sweeps out of John’s room. He doesn’t want to say it, barely wants to feel it, but he can’t help thinking he wants John Watson to give him one hell of a fight.


	5. Chapter 5

          “Fuck!” Sherlock snaps, and Jane’s head twists around at the unusual outburst. This is the third time Sherlock’s gotten there too late. The third time he’s found a body where he needed to find a person, silence instead of information. “This is Moriarty’s man, and he’s good. He’s too good,” Sherlock muses, looking and storing the information of the scene – there’ve been no gunshots, no ballistics, just a quick slice of a throat from behind – the victims probably never knew what happened. He was quick, he was efficient, and perhaps most telling of all, he was passionless. He was doing a job. Eliminating the people Sherlock needed – the only people who were tied to Moriarty in any kind of tangible way. The ones who’d been imprisoned for their crimes, or who’d carelessly left paper trails.

          “He’s following the same evidence we’re following,” Jane points out, needlessly. Sherlock doesn’t even bite back, _obvious_. He just retreats from the room, knowing for the third time in a week he’s been beaten. Time for a change of tactics, obviously.

          “So we stop following the evidence, and we follow _him_.”

          “That’s well and good enough, but you wanna tell me how?”

          If it were John, he could say, I don’t know. Instead he presses his lips together and Jane shakes her head, trails after him. It’s all wrong. A voice that keeps muttering in his mind, you could have John here, just go get him. John would be helpful, here, he’s always helpful, and you could _breathe_ again, you could _think_. He clamps down on the voice, the desire that blooms in chest at the thought of having John by his side. It’s useless to fantasize about it. He cannot, will not, endanger John, and this thing isn’t ending pretty. To have John quickly, efficiently and dispassionately eliminated by this faceless man would be unbearable. You can’t have John until this is over. That’s motivation enough to push through, to figure out how to do this without him.

          He is, after all, very good at ignoring wants and needs and just solving the puzzle. He can turn his eyes away from the part of him that can’t keep from imagining what he will do when he has John back, to have that brave, strong and capable figure beside him, his hands steady on his gun or pecking at his keyboard, or running through Sherlock’s hair, John’s sure, strong hands would be soft on him, he knew, god they’d be gentle and his hands would be followed by his lips, by his teeth, by his tongue – stop it. Even if you get to go home, that will not have changed.

 

          “Ah! He’s working from the same evidence we are. In the same order. We’ll just skip ahead a few. We’ll get there first. And we’ll get our answers.”

          “You think it’ll be that easy?”

          “The simplest path is often the best. I don’t believe we’re chasing a big picture man, here. He’s just getting the job done. Probably doesn’t even know we’re on his tail.”

          “Well, that’ll be because we hardly _are_ on his tail. Showing up to a six hours cold body isn’t really the tail.”

          “Yes, thank you, your confidence is so helpful.”

          She falls silent, refocuses on cleaning her gun. Unnecessary, but apparently ritualistic. For several minutes she doesn’t say anything, but the set of her jaw lets Sherlock know she’s thinking. “My point is, we’re so far behind him he doesn’t know we’re there. We can use that. Can’t stop us if he never sees us coming. And we have no reason to think he knows about us at all. So it’s a good idea, yours, is what I meant. Get ahead of him. But I think, my tactical opinion here, is that we don’t just lie in wait for him. Don’t know what we’re dealing with but I don’t like the feel of the crime scenes. He’ll kill you before he’ll answer your questions. And you just walk right in, I know about you and that. Can’t do it the simplest way, is what I’m trying to say.”

          Sherlock frankly stares at her. It’s the most she’s talked at once in the length of their association. And she’s right, however little he wants to admit it, he can’t operate on bravado alone – his confrontation with Moriarty has taught him that. He survived it, but he didn’t win, and that still rankles. He can hear a voice which is extraordinarily like John’s chiding him, _your way doesn’t always work, you can stand to try it another way_.

          “Jane, I don’t mind saying I’m out of my league here. Your input is important. And I think you’re right. We get ahead of him to get a look at him. Nothing more until we know who we’re dealing with.”

          She nods, brief pride on her face before she shutters it off, impassive as ever. “What.”

          “I’m sorry?”

          “What we’re dealing with. Trust me, Mr. Holmes. I’ve seen a lot. And this guy? Ain’t no who.” 


	6. Chapter 6

          Lestrade tipped a stack of files onto the desk. “More cold cases he cracked for us.”

          “Christ, Greg. You can stop unearthing these, we’ve got more than enough.” John gestured faintly to the stacks of files on both sides of the desk, as well as the floor and the better half of the sofa. He found it wasn’t as hard to be in Baker Street as he’d imagined, and after his last meeting with Mycroft, he’d found his fire, left the cramped bedsit and returned home, which was now also the headquarters of what was, somewhat disturbingly to him, being referred to as John Watson’s War.

          People came out of the woodwork, people loyal to Sherlock, and although the majority of them couldn’t help in any useful way, the sheer number of them was staggering. And heartening, John thought, the usual fondness in his chest as he looked over the newest stack of files. Leaps of logic no one else could ever have made, but borne out by evidence. The knot of tension between Lestrade’s shoulders had dissipated somewhat the more they worked through these files. Very few of them turned on Sherlock’s help alone, and as such his reputation wasn’t nearly as ruined as he’d imagined. Sherlock had seen things none of his officers had seen, things he hadn’t seen, or even imagined, but they weren’t flights of fancy or tricks. They weren’t lies. There was solid evidence nearly every time. It almost didn’t matter to him at this point if Sherlock had been a genius or just a very good trickster, he’d been bloody good at what he did and helped loads of people along the way. He wouldn’t mention this to John, who read through the files, particularly any statements Sherlock made, with a smile on his face that twisted Lestrade’s heart.

          “We’re getting a pretty persuasive argument going here,” John pointed out, turning his laptop screen to Greg. Sebastian Wilkes had been almost frighteningly dedicated to helping. John hadn’t thought he and Sherlock had been very close, and his fingers still twitched into a fist when he remembered the way Wilkes had belittled Sherlock. But it turned out to be handy having a banker on their side, good with numbers and computers. John couldn’t have made a graph nor done these kinds of statistics. He’d been scratching tally marks into columns on a piece of notebook paper, which had turned Wilkes faintly green. He had seized John’s paper and within a few hours, sent this email with neatly organized and colorfully presented data on Sherlock’s cases.

          Lestrade smiled. “Graphs! Nothing like some slides and charts to make the bureaucracy listen to what I’ve got to say.”

          “They’ll see it your way, Greg, they have to. You can’t refute evidence like this. You needed him. And you’re not the only one who used him! There’s been seven different inspectors in these files.”

Lestrade has finally gotten an appeal of his disciplinary review, after going through weeks of paperwork to try to secure it. It was only a slap on the wrist, he hadn’t even been demoted like he’d feared, but there were official sanctions and then there was his reputation, which was a different matter altogether. He was after clearing his name more than anything official. No one makes it through a career on the force without a mark or two against them, and prior to this disaster Lestrade’s record was much cleaner than the average DI’s. Yes, he’d consulted Sherlock Holmes on a number of cases. Yes, that wasn’t, strictly speaking, in keeping with policy. He was willing to take the discipline for that. Deserved it, even, he could admit that. He ought to have come clean to his superintendent much earlier about his involvement of an outside party. He probably could’ve gotten permission. If only they wouldn’t have insisted on meeting Sherlock. He could never imagine that his superiors meeting with Sherlock Holmes would end well. So he’d skirted the rules, and he’d done it for the cases, because he needed Sherlock’s help. But part of him knew he also did it for Sherlock. He did it for the skinny kid with a bloody nose who’d stared at him defiantly from the backseat of his cruiser, who’d insisted that if they would just listen for a minute, he could prove that there was a much bigger bust to be made than his simple breaking and entering. He hadn’t understood why then, and he didn’t understand still, but he’d listened. And fuck if the kid (who turned out to be much older than Lestrade would’ve guessed from his appearance, not so much of a kid after all) hadn’t been right. He’d gotten Lestrade a huge bust, and he hadn’t asked for a damn thing. Not even the credit. So Lestrade had given him a handful of cash (“get yourself something to eat, for Christ’s sake”) and sent him on his way. Something had made him jog after him and hand over his card. “Call me if you get yourself into any more trouble,” he’d said, because he knew there would be more trouble for this kid, he hadn’t lost the hunger for the drug and he was too smart-mouthed and too pretty to avoid it. He never did call, but a visit from a discomfortingly well-dressed man had influenced Greg to find the kid again, when he had a case he was having a hard time with. In less than a day a double homicide case was closed, and from then on, Sherlock Holmes had been a constant fixture in his life.

He let out a huff of laughter. “The man’s gone and he’s still the center of our lives.”

John didn’t answer. Greg left earlier than normal, memory stick in hand, as prepared for battle as he imagined he’d ever be. 


	7. Chapter 7

          They were long days, and boring, and sometimes Moran missed Jim so much it hurt. He’d scrub his hands in whatever dingy motel he was holed up in, and not look at himself in the mirror, because it wasn’t him looking back – he’d caught his own reflection in a window and didn’t understand who that hollow man was before he realized it was him, and there was nothing in his eyes. Maybe he’d always been destined to become this, a mindless drone just killing, without even any satisfaction anymore. He got no relief from the slick blood that poured from their throats, no joy in the muffled cry of terror or the trembling limbs beneath his hands.

 

          He was cleaning up Jim’s mess, same as he’d always done. He left messes, Jim, ‘course he did. He was a genius but he was also insane, and that wasn’t always a neat combination. There were so many projects he’d dumped halfway through, when he got “bored.” There was revenge he’d never gotten around to exacting. Either he thought he’d have time – why’d you go, Jim, _why_ – or he just didn’t care what mess he left behind – more likely. Whichever it was, he’d died with scores unsettled, and who to settle them if not Moran?

 

          Didn’t mean he had to like it. He’d never had to like it, truth be told, liking it was a perk. He’d have done it either way, because Jim terrified and excited him, and to feel something like that – something like anything – again, after so long. Well, he’d have done just about anything.

 

          That’s something he and John Watson had in common. He still felt something, at least, when he thought about John Watson and his bloody crusade – when he thought about Jim’s face on every corner he turned, when he saw his own hands ripping down the flyers, when he realized he still held them balled in his fists as he vomited in the gutter, watching it from outside himself. Him and John Watson, two men who’d been lost, found, and lost again. Maybe he didn’t blame him after all, for carrying on like he was. Except Watson was going against boss’s orders. Maybe that’s why it bothered him. He was jealous. Here was Sebastian Moran, still doing what Jim wanted, even when it wasn’t at all what _he_ wanted. He wanted to leave the flyers up, wanted to forget Moriarty’s plan, wanted to sit down and breathe for a minute, but he couldn’t. Well, maybe he could. But he didn’t.

 

 

          One more loose end to tie up, and he’d take a bit of a break. He’d gotten done with England, Ireland, and was one man from being shot of Russia. After that the work moved to Asia. Too many of those Chinese smugglers had known an initial – that was enough to justify wiping him out, he wagered. Be good to stop having to pay a cryptographer at any rate.

 

          He put paid to the man easy enough, stepped out of the flat and lit a cigarette. But then, corner of his eye in the flare of his lighter, a shadow. He took a long drag and felt his blood come alive, not with the nicotine or the kill but the threat – something new, he thought, and it was Jim’s voice in his head, Jim’s excitement. Why should that be unless –

 

          Sherlock fucking Holmes. Impossible. But his mind had identified him. Ugly git, those alien eyes, lanky, hard to mistake. Way he knew which man was enemy and which was civilian even though they looked the same, dots in the distance. Knew it up and down his spine. He didn’t know how, wasn’t especially concerned with how. Just felt a flush of rage from his scalp to his toes, skin tingling, blood singing – Sherlock Holmes was alive.

 

          Which meant Sebastian Moran could kill him.

 

          He kept his posture relaxed, knew Holmes’ trick – knew he’d read any thought in his mind. He blanked out, just thought of getting a hot shower and crawling between the sheets, getting a solid night’s rest, no rush to be anywhere, nothing else on until he felt like it. Kept his face impassive, finished his cigarette and flicked it into the shrubs. Didn’t give a fuck about evidence, DNA. They’d never get him. If they did, they’d never hold him. Let Sherlock Holmes know that. He wasn’t afraid. 


	8. Chapter 8

          It had taken some wrangling, and a few false starts, but they’d caught up with him. The plan was to get ahead, but they barely made it. They were too late to save the victim, and Jane squeezed her eyes shut for a moment at the sight of him through the window. Sherlock couldn’t stop to spare a thought for the man, nor for Jane. He was literally right behind the man they were chasing. Sherlock stood in the cover of a cluster of trees and waited. When the man’s flame lit his face, Sherlock’s blood ran cold. He was something Sherlock hadn’t seen before. Not a man motivated by passion, money, fear, or indeed anything. At least not anything Sherlock could identify at a look.

          Perhaps the most chilling thing is that Sherlock has no idea, not one clue, who this man is. He’d hoped to recognize him, somehow, hoped that he was one of the hitmen with whom it was Sherlock’s job to be familiar. Sherlock watched the man walk away, flicking his cigarette butt in defiance of common sense – didn’t think he’d be caught, or didn’t care? Something briefly like awareness flitted over the man’s features but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, his face a mask of impassivity. There was something very cold and far-away in the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the ease with which he strolled down the street.

          Sherlock felt Jane tense up behind him and held out a hand. “He’ll know. If we follow, he’ll know.” He was sure this was true, though he couldn’t have explained how he knew it. It wasn’t a deduction, it was an instinct, and Sherlock wasn’t comfortable with that, it sat in his head the wrong way, couldn’t be moved or mapped or stored. It just stuck there, somehow, that this man was a potentially more dangerous opponent than Moriarty himself had been, simply because Sherlock did not understand him. Moriarty, he had understood, though his final action had been an unpleasant shock.

          He stood, still and silent, long after the man had gone. Finally Jane prodded him. “We gonna stand here all night then? Lovely weather,” her breath a cloud in the cold air. Sherlock felt a smile twitching in his cheek but it didn’t come to fruition. They walked in silence back to the car, Jane’s acquisition which Sherlock appreciated for its simplicity. He let her drive, his mind still turning over the face, the indefinable dread that had settled into his stomach. He had no idea what his next move was.

          Jane let him sit in silence throughout the short ride back to their motel, left him sitting, thinking, while she took a shower. Didn’t speak for hours, until they were both in their beds, nothing approaching sleep in the offing. She finally turned her head and eyed him, staring up at the ceiling, unblinking. “What’re we gonna do about the Colonel, then?”

          Sherlock’s head snapped to the left and he met her eyes with an intensity that led her to see, for the first time, why he had such a reputation – the fire in his eyes put a shiver down her spine. He sits up, leans across the space between the beds. “What did you say?”

          “I said, what are we gonna do about him?”

          “You called him the Colonel. You know him?”

          She’s shocked for a moment. “Course I know him – you don’t?”

          “Obviously not,” he says, and it’s the closest to a growl she’s heard a human produce.

          “That doesn’t make sense. You should’ve done. Your brother knew him. Knew of him, more like, never actually got him in.”

          The entirely unwelcome thought ‘even _Mycroft_ couldn’t get him’ floated across his mind and he shook his head slightly, flicking it away. Between them, he can admit, “My brother knows a lot of things I don’t know.”

          “And god knows he doesn’t like to share.”

          “Tell me everything _you_ know.”

          “Sebastian Moran. Ex-Army, discharged – only honorably because of his father, some useless ambassador to someplace – I don’t remember,” Sherlock’s impatient huff is cut off by a quirk of her eyebrow – “fuck off, I can’t remember everything. Most I can tell ya, you probably figured out already. Moriarty’s right hand. Left hand, too, come to that. Tough jobs, secret jobs, the stuff other people wouldn’t do or couldn’t be let in on. All this guy. Only we could never prove it, could we, he’s too good. I should’ve guessed this was his handiwork, but rumor had it he and Moriarty parted ways months before he died, figured him for dead.”

          “You don’t part ways with Jim Moriarty and live,” Sherlock agreed.

          “But he obviously did. And he’s still doing Moriarty’s work, so…”

          “Put the story out there themselves, so no one would see him coming. Oh, that is good.”

          “Excuse me, it’s anything but good. This man is – look, I’m pretty tough, okay, but this man scares me shitless. That’s another thing why I didn’t put this together, these have been clean, efficient kills. But detached, right? Professional. Well, he’s a professional and he’s efficient but he’s never been detached – up close is Moran’s favorite kind of kill. He didn’t savor these, at all. That’s not like him, least not like his other ones. When he snipes someone, sure, we got no way of knowing how he felt about it. But when he’s face to face, he can’t help… playing a little. Usually. Until these guys,” and she gestures to Sherlock’s notes on the desk, the photos they’ve snapped or creatively procured from police.

          Sherlock sits back, drums his fingers on the nightstand. Something is uncurling all the way down his body, his feet tingling with it. Something that reminds him of John, strangely, but he can’t piece it together. “Thank you, Jane. I think I need to… process, a bit,” and she nods, lays back down, instinctively grabs under the pillow to be sure of her gun.

          He checks his email, finds a new set of photos from Molly and an editorial piece on Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock skims it. Lestrade presented a case before a behavioral board and as a result they’ve issued a formal statement that “although not in keeping with official policy”, the solve rate of cases involving Lestrade’s “consultant” Sherlock Holmes “cannot be ignored” and many of the cases “stand on solid evidence regardless of the questionable reputation of the late—“ He stops reading there. Pleased to know that Lestrade won’t suffer permanent consequences. But Lestrade must have presented an extremely compelling case to make a board of bureaucrats retract their earlier decision. It was easier to get Sherlock himself to admit he was wrong. Lestrade couldn’t have done that without help. The photos Molly’s attached confirm his fear – “Watson’s Warriors?” he scoffs aloud, throwing a quick glance at Jane to see that she wasn’t disturbed. John wouldn’t have come up with that, he knows. John wouldn’t have made it about him.

          So who did? As if the entire crusade weren’t already counter to his purposes. It wouldn’t do for John to become a focus. That put him at risk. _Damn it, John. I didn’t die to save you just for you to turn around and get killed_.

          Three snipers. Two are dead now, courtesy of Moran. The third… He remembers Jane’s words, the tough jobs, the secret jobs – killing John Watson, that’s a pretty tough job. It’ll never happen if you try to do it up close.

          John’s sniper. Moran. And if he was meant to kill him once, what would stop him from doing it now? Obviously following orders. Didn’t take a shot when he had one, probably more than once, which doesn’t sound like the man Jane described. Loyal to Moriarty.

 

          “Jane.” She wakes all at once, reaching under her pillow. “No, nothing’s – I just wanted to talk something over with you.” He isn’t sure what to make of it, but he has always worked better with someone to talk to, and Jane knows this man, at least better than Sherlock does. She pulls her feet up, rests her chin on her knees, and in this pose looks… vulnerable. It strikes Sherlock that for all her professionalism, her implacability, she’s really very young, younger than him certainly.

          “We need to get to Moran. We need to do it now. We’re at the end of the trail, we don’t know where he’s going next. What he might do. And I have… there are people who…” and he doesn’t know how to do this, how to tell someone, someone who isn’t John, that he is afraid.

          “You’re afraid for Dr. Watson.” She says it softly, and he can’t hear any judgment in it, which is almost worse. She’s just casually acknowledging, and all he can do is nod.

“I understand that. I really do. But I don’t think our best course of action is to charge after him without thinking.”

          He stands and paces. “I am thinking! I’m always thinking, and right now I’m thinking that all of this seems to hinge on one man!”

          “Not an ordinary man, Sher—Mr. Holmes. A very, very dangerous man.”

          He swivels and fixes her with a glare. “Do you imagine for one second that I am not also very, very dangerous?” His voice is low, and his face is set in something that makes her uneasy.

“You are. You are dangerous, and you are brilliant. And right now? You are also _scared_. And scared doesn’t make good decisions.”

He knows she’s right. He doesn’t care.

          “Mr. Holmes--”

          “Oh, for god’s sake, you can call me Sherlock.”

          “—if you want to trail him, let’s do that. Let’s get information.”

          “And how do you propose – oh. No. Not a chance.”

          “I don’t want to call him any more than you do, but he can help.”

          “He doesn’t even know I’m alive. That’s for a reason.”

          “Sherlock. Don’t tell me you believe you fooled your brother?”

          Sherlock remains silent. He isn’t sure, of course he isn’t. He can’t be certain of anything, which is why his skin feels like it’s too tight for his body and he can’t just sit here anymore, doing nothing.

“I’m going to get some air.”

           “Not alone, you’re not, are you out of your mind?”

          Sherlock looks at her, long and searching. “He really does frighten you.”

          She swallows. Nods, doesn’t meet Sherlock’s gaze. For once, he doesn’t push. He settles back down at the desk, stares at the laptop without really seeing anything. He can’t read about Lestrade, he can’t look at the proof of the danger John is in, can’t think of John without his throat tightening. Won’t go look at John’s blog, again, though it never updates. His only correspondent is Molly, and her communiques are one-way only. He has never responded. He slides his fingers around his mobile. It’s a throwaway, prepaid, relatively untraceable (though certainly nothing is completely untraceable). They keep their phones off in the room, just in case someone’s watching.

          Maybe big brother is watching.

          He turns the phone on. Slides it under the pillow of his bed.  

          He waits until he’s certain her slow, even breathing is a result of sleep, then quietly leaves the room.

 

          When Jane wakes six hours later, he hasn’t returned.

          “Holmes, you fucking _idiot_.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

          Jane waits, though she knows it is in vain. Sherlock isn’t coming back. He went after Moran on his own, like she specifically _told him not to_ —getting angry won’t help. She breathes deep, tries to calm down, but every second that ticks by, Sherlock is getting closer to Moran – or Moran already has him. She wonders idly if she should have more faith in Sherlock, but the man is so bloody arrogant, he wouldn’t stand a chance against Moran simply because _he thought he would_. God, if Moran gets him… her stomach tightens to imagine, because it isn’t going to be a simple kill. If Moran holds Sherlock responsible for Moriarty’s death, it isn’t going to be simple at all.

          That’s a Holmes for you. Unwilling to accept there is something about the situation they do not know, an eventuality they cannot predict. You’d think his experience with Moriarty would have taught him that lesson. Arrogant sod. Running off half-cocked.

          Everything in her wants to chase him, but she stays put. She remembers being a child and getting her father’s survivalist lessons – if I lose you, Siobhan, stay put, I will find you. He had explained if she went looking for him while he was looking for her, they would keep missing each other. So she stayed put, and hoped Sherlock would come back. It had been 12 hours, and she was approaching the end of her faith (her patience long since exhausted) when she heard the plastic swipe of a keycard in the door. Her entire body went on alert and she held steady, gun trained on the door. If it was Moran she couldn’t shoot to kill, had to keep him alive if he knew where Sherlock was. If it was Sherlock she might kneecap him as thanks for the aggravation.

          She didn’t expect it to be Mycroft.

          The sight of him after these last few years proved that her anger towards him had not faded in the least. She briefly contemplated winging him anyway and blaming it on being startled. Sighing, she lowered her gun. “The fuck you doing here?”

          “Ah, Siobhan, charming as ever.”

          “Jane, you bastard, _you_ call me Jane.”

          “Apologies, Jane. Now. Where is my dear brother?”

          She ought to have been surprised, or possibly angry – of course he’s known all this time, but if he has, why hasn’t he _helped_ – but all she feels is a sudden weariness that cuts to her bones. Her rigid posture sags a bit. “I don’t know. I don’t know where he is. Bloody idiot took off on me, didn’t he?”

          Mycroft sheds his coat and lays it across the end of Sherlock’s bed. He sits beside it and thrusts a hand under the pillow. Jane’s eyes go wide to see it reemerge clutching Sherlock’s throw-away phone, blinking a low battery warning.

          “He brought you here.”

          “It would appear that way, certainly. I’m assuming he did so in case whatever he took off to do went awry. Which it clearly has, given your concern.”

          She lets out a breath to steady herself so she doesn’t slap him. “Don’t do that. Don’t do that clever talking where there’s a hundred words and none of them _say_ anything! Do you know what’s going on or don’t you?”

          “I know that I came here looking for Sherlock. Beyond that, I’m afraid I have no information for you.”

          “So you don’t know it’s Moran?”

          Mycroft swallows hard. “No, I’m afraid that I didn’t know that. We certainly knew someone was cleaning house. If I had known who it was…”

          “You wouldn’t have done a fucking thing different. Knew someone was cleaning house, did you? Didn’t step in to stop people murdered? Guess I’m not surprised.”

          “I know you have an axe to grind with me, Miss Turner, but at the moment my brother’s life is in grave danger, so if you wouldn’t mind holding off—“

          “Yeah,” she sighs, pushing a hand through her short hair, leaving it in spikes in the back. The weight of it is in the air between them. “His life’s in danger, all right. We saw Moran. Sherlock didn’t know who he was.” She wanted to throw in a comment about the consequences of Mycroft’s reticence, again, but his sagging shoulders tug something in her chest and she can’t do it.

          “You filled him in?”

          “Not too far. Just that he was Moriarty’s chief, but we thought he was dead. Must’ve gone underground to prepare for this. Sherlock got scared, about his friends. About Dr. Watson. Thought, well, Moran’s finished up here. What if he’s going for John next?”

          “If he thought John was in danger, he’d spare no thought for his own danger.”

          “Seems like it, he wanted to go, I talked him out of it but I – well, I fell asleep, shouldn’t have, that was stupid, should’ve known I couldn’t trust him not to go off on his own as soon as I had my back turned—“ she’s doing all she can to fight it but there’s more than a touch of defensiveness, because if Mycroft bleeding Holmes decides to blame her for this, she thinks viciously, she will not be held accountable for her actions.

          “Miss Turner,” he begins, pauses, starts again, more gentle than she would’ve thought him capable of. “Jane. If I were to say only one thing about my brother, it would be that he cannot be controlled. He will do what he will, and expect the rest of us to clean up after him.”

          “And you always do, don’t you? And I’ve done the same. Without even questioning it. What _is_ it with you two? You have mind control or something?”

          He smirks a bit. “A mother who was very keen on making sure her boys had their way in this world.”

          Jane is momentarily sidetracked by imagining what that woman must be like – she hadn’t considered them being raised, having a mother, she’d assumed they just showed up one day and started bossing people around.

          “Get some rest, Jane. If Moran has Sherlock, he has him alive. I need to get in touch with some of our people locally for assistance. There’s nothing we can do right now.”

          She disagrees, thinks they can start scouring every seedy motel in the fucking city with Moran’s picture, thinks they can bust down doors and find him and drag Holmes out of there by his ridiculous hair. But she lies down, closes her eyes, and drops to sleep almost immediately.

 

          Later, after she showers and eats and remembers to breathe for a few moments, she quietly marvels at Mycroft’s power. She’s been out of his direct orbit long enough that she’s almost forgotten. Within hours he has assembled a team who are doing exactly what Jane herself had wanted to do – canvassing the city for any information which could lead them to Moran. Her fingers twitch and she paces the room, completely dissatisfied to sit by and do nothing. But Mycroft wants to talk to her, has asked her to stay put so he can join her later, means to take her to dinner and “catch up” and it sets her teeth on edge. She still cannot forgive him. She is magnanimous enough to admit she needs him, but opening the door at his knock, seeing him in his fucking three piece suit and supercilious smile, she finds that even after 3 years, she wants to send a fist into his face.

          She tries to be glad of getting out of the room for the first time in over a day, appreciates the restaurant he’s chosen, though she feels out of place there in her jeans and boots, her simple button-up the closest thing to nice clothes she brought with her. She thinks for a moment of her first posting overseas, where she was chosen for her youth, for her bright eyes and shiny hair, when she wore cocktail dresses and danced with oil magnates at horrendously ostentatious parties, and sometimes killed them afterwards. When she was another person, with another name, who had an easy laugh and who never felt out of place anywhere.

          Mycroft orders a bottle of wine and she drinks it, though she shouldn’t. She should stay clear and in control. But she’s sitting across the table from Mycroft Holmes and alcohol is necessary.

          “So. Anything yet?”

          “No. Of course I will tell you the moment we learn something of value.”

          She drains her glass and pours another. “No, let’s get one thing straight here. You will tell me if you learn anything. And _I_ will decide if it’s of value.”

          Mycroft sighs and his eyes flutter closed for a moment too long. He almost looks like he’s wincing. “Jane. It pains me to be so dramatic about this, but I feel I must say this. If you wish to have an argument, we can do so. But let’s discuss what it is you really wish to discuss.”

          She keeps her gaze on him, steady, not looking away. Also not giving in.

          “You clearly still harbor some animosity towards me for the unfortunate—“

          “No. No. We’re not talking about that here.”

          “Jane, honestly, don’t be childish.”

          She reaches across the table in a flash, seizes his wrist, and revels in the moment of genuine surprise in his features. She lightly pushes her thumb into the pressure point at his wrist, enough to remind him she’s been trained for this, she knows what she’s doing, and he would do well to remember that. She eases off at the first sign of genuine pain in his eyes, and pulls her hand back.

          “We can have whatever other conversation you like, Mr. Holmes. But we will not discuss that particular issue in public. All right?”

          Mycroft nods, clears his throat. Composed again, not that he really lost his composure. Not that he ever really does. She can remember too clearly screaming and crying and blood and in the middle of it all, a serene Mycroft Holmes surveying the scene with vague disdain. Perhaps he is aware of just how clearly she is recalling that, as he hastens to find a new topic of discussion.

          “How did you come to be in my brother’s employ? I was under the impression you were working in personnel.”

          So she had been. Hiring a spy isn’t an easy thing, but it’s nothing to firing one, and she’d been tasked with cleaning up those little messes. It was dull, for her, and had been the only thing they’d wanted her anywhere near after what had happened. In ‘personnel’ it doesn’t matter if you get a little out of hand, if you’re a little unstable. In ‘personnel’ it doesn’t matter if you just don’t show up one day and they send a cleaner to your flat and find you bloodless in the tub. They thought she’d go that way, saw it every time they looked at her. But she’d thought, fuck them, if it’s what they expect it’ll be the last thing I give them.

          “Yeah. Well, personnel got a bit boring for me. Your brother knew of me from my involvement in retrieving some documents from a particularly stupid diplomat. You might remember.”

          “Ah, yes. The particularly stupid diplomat didn’t come out of that too well, as I recall.”

          “So, Sherlock remembered me. Came to me when he started seeing which way that thing was gonna go for him. Said he needed help, protection, extra set of eyes, what have you.”

          “And you agreed. I confess I can’t see why.”

          “Told you. Personnel got a bit stale. What Sherlock promised was something a little more exciting. I haven’t been flooded with other offers. It was a way out.”

          “He’s on a crusade and you agreed to go along, blindly.” Mycroft’s tone was skeptical, as if he suspected he wasn’t getting the whole story. It did sound incomplete. But it had just been the timing. She’d started to think she’d had about enough of paperwork, enough of quick, efficient bullets where head meets neck, enough of identifying the suicides in the morgue and appropriating the remains (god bless counterterrorism laws, she could do anything she liked with the right ID badge). Enough of erasing people as if they’d never existed. Wondering who’d do hers when she went. And then came Sherlock Holmes, who was absolutely a nutter but an incendiary one, and as he spun her a story, she’d felt a tingling up her back, and she’d known that it didn’t matter what happened, at least with Sherlock it would be different.

          “What did I have to lose?”

          “I knew a woman named Siobhan Murtagh who would have said ‘that is entirely the wrong question.’ She would have insisted you ask yourself, what do I have to _gain_?”

          “Yeah, well. That woman doesn’t have my life.”

          Mycroft smiled faintly. “Doesn’t she?”

          Jane shook her head firmly. Met Mycroft’s eyes. “No. She doesn’t.”

          Mycroft’s phone chimed and his eyebrows furrowed slightly as he read the text on the screen.

          “You got something?” she leaned forward in her seat, heart picking up speed.

          “A motel owner identified Moran. He checked out this morning. They’re checking activity on the card he used for the room.”

          Jane was out of her seat before Mycroft looked up from the phone. “Let’s go, fat cat.”

          Well. Hadn’t meant to bring _that_ nickname back out. Mycroft’s face showed nothing but as he rose from the table and they headed for the exit, she had the strangest feeling he was pleased to hear it.

          


	10. Chapter 10

          “Hey, mate. You all right?”

          John feels a hand close around his elbow and shakes it off. “Fine, I’m… fine,” but he isn’t, grips the edges of the sink to steady himself.

          “You don’t look fine.”

          “Aren’t you observant,” and he giggles to himself. Finally looks around at the man. He’s slim, mousy, shorter than John, clothes are obviously secondhand, they don’t fit him well. Homeless, maybe. It makes him worry for a moment about his own appearance, that he should have the homeless asking after his welfare.

          “Maybe you better get home,” the man suggests, and the fact that there is pity in his voice makes John’s skin crawl. He turns to face him, pulls himself together for a minute.

          “Maybe you better mind your own business,” he returns, placidly. The man offers a half-hearted shrug and leaves the toilet. John splashes water on his face and avoids looking in the scratched glass of the mirror. He picks his way carefully out of the pub, every few steps taking him off course. When he manages to make it outside he finds himself gulping in the relatively fresh air, didn’t realize how hot he’d been in there, how smothered. The sudden cold cramps his stomach and he’s doubled over, coughing into the gutter.

          A bottle of water materializes in the air beside him and he grabs it without thinking, swishes a mouthful and spits. A tissue appears next and he wipes the corners of his mouth, straightens up slowly. “What are you, my guardian angel?”

          “Something like that. Going to apologize for telling me off?”

          “I said you should mind your own business. I wasn’t wrong.”

          “Yeah, but Dr. Watson, minding you _is_ my business.”

          “What are you talking about?”

          “Nothing, forget it. Come on, let me just make sure you get home okay.” John refuses to lean on him for support, so their progress is slow as John needs to stop and take a few steadying breaths every block or so.

          When 221B is in sight, John cocks his head towards it. “My flat. Thanks.”

          “I’ll just get you right to the door, if you don’t mind.”

          “I do mind. I’m fine. I had a few too many. It’s not – it doesn’t need to be a big deal.”

          “Hey, I’m not judging you, I’m just trying to make sure you make it home.”

          “Fuck off, I don’t even _know_ you,” and he walks away, thinking, _it isn’t home, not anymore_.

 

          He wakes all at once the next morning, the man from the night before behind his eyelids, his head spinning with questions he hadn’t been clear enough to ask. Minding me is his business? The fuck is that about? He tries to pull himself together with a shower, brushes his teeth twice but can’t lose the fuzzy feeling on his tongue. He shakes his head at himself in the mirror. He’d started out last night intending to celebrate a bit. The Metro had done a piece retracting their previous pieces which called Sherlock a fraud. “England Believes in Sherlock Holmes” and although it focused on John a bit more than he was comfortable with, it should have felt good, and Scotland Yard formally apologizing to Lestrade should have felt good, and rumor had it the Telgraph was going to do an expose on the fake actor Rich Brook and it all should have felt good. But it was hollow.

          It was the damn picture that did it. The story in the Metro, not headline news, but not buried either. They didn’t use a “hat picture.” Sherlock would have liked that. Instead, they used one of Sherlock and John standing side by side, accepting thanks from one of the clients, at this point John can’t remember which. John is in the foreground of the shot, Sherlock faintly blurry behind him, and his eyes are focused entirely on John, and John is very nearly beaming. And there aren’t many photos of them together, and John has almost none of them to himself, and he wasn’t expecting it. There they are, and they look… comfortable, and he looks happy, and Sherlock is looking at him so _intensely_ and god, he misses that look. It had felt like an icy hand squeezed his guts, and he couldn’t push it back down. He missed Sherlock, and it wouldn’t ever stop. Now that things are starting to come together, he has nothing left to work for. His strings are cut.

          He checks his phone, clears the missed calls from Greg, from Harry, from numbers he doesn’t recognize. Doesn’t listen to the voicemails, doesn’t read the texts. It’s only been a few days since he’s tried to slip off the radar, and they are probably congratulatory, and he can’t take it, suddenly, can’t stand it. He glances at the skull on the mantelpiece, Sherlock’s violin case, his stand and notes where he left them. Nothing’s changed, not really. Nothing that matters.

          But this was something new, something he could chase. A man who was apparently watching him. _Probably Mycroft_. But it was worth finding out more. What else was there to do?

 

          Getting him to show up again was the problem. John went to the market and picked up a few things, texted his sister that he was fine, avoided looking at the rows of flyers plastered in the Baker Street station. Hundreds of them, all over the city, the country – if the Internet was to be believed, all over the world. All these people, these nameless, faceless people, believing in Sherlock. Believing in _John_ , fighting with him. More and more, he saw his own name, his photo in silhouette. I stand with John Watson. I am fighting John Watson’s War. Which is what, exactly? To continue dedicating your life to the service of a man who couldn’t even be bothered to tell you the truth? A man who kept you in the dark at every turn and then just left you alone. He wanted to start a new campaign. Don’t look up to John Watson. All he is a lonely, hollowed out man who never learned how to quit, even when he wasn’t sure why he was fighting.

          John suddenly quite strongly needed a drink.

 

          A few hours later his heroic booze intake is rewarded with another visit from his new friend. 

          John feels him settle on the stool next to his at the bar and doesn’t have to look up to know it’s him. “So you just going to start showing up whenever I get pissed?”

          He chuckles. “Yeah, maybe, but I got other stuff going on, so let’s avoid this becoming a regular habit.”

          John looks over at him. He looks clean and fresh, a sight better than John does at the moment. “I don’t even know your name.”

          He sticks out a hand, which John shakes. “It’s Aaron.”

          “Guess you know mine.”

          Aaron nods, releases John’s hand slowly. “Sure. Known you for awhile. The thing is, you weren’t ever supposed to know it. I kind of, made a mistake last night, talking to you.”

          “So why did you?”

          “You didn’t look so good. Still don’t. Not used to seeing you that way.”

          “Well. I had a rough day.”

          “Want to talk about it?”

          John’s quiet for a minute. He wants to be grateful for this kindness, but he spent enough time around the Holmes brothers that he distrusts everything now. And he was never that trusting to begin with.

          “Just who the hell are you, exactly?”

          Aaron smiles a bit. “Thought you were being a little too calm. Took finding out I’ve been watching you pretty well.”

          John thinks of Mycroft, of the surveillance cameras, of Sherlock tailing him everywhere he went. “I gave up on privacy a long time ago,” he admits. “You haven’t tried to kill me yet, so as far as I’m concerned, I’m ahead of the game. Question still stands. Who are you? Why is ‘minding me’ your business?”

          “Been paid to. That makes it business, right?”

          “Paid. To do what? Hand me tissues when I’m sick in a gutter?”

          “To do whatever it seems like you need. Look after you, like. Not let you drink yourself to death, nobody ever laid that one out in black and white but I’m extrapolating. I’m not the only one. Wasn’t the first one, but we don’t know what happened to her. We can be unreliable workers, sometimes,” he laughs.

          “Who’s ‘we’ then?”

          “We’re just people, same as you. Just, you know, homeless.”

          “But it was only ever,” and he has to swallow hard here, “Sherlock who used – what he called it – ‘homeless network.’”

          Aaron just looked at him blankly.

          “So Mycroft’s nicked his resources, then?”

          Aaron is quiet for a minute, staring at his hands on the bar. “Jesus, I shouldn’t say anything.”

          “So why are you?”

          “Don’t know, man. We kind of… have a lot in common, I guess.”

          John wants to scoff. Should immediately think, there’s no way. But he’s always been aware that it’s only a few small choices that make or break people’s lives. He looks at Aaron, at his slim face and tired eyes. And he isn’t surprised at all to know there’s a story there that isn’t unlike John’s.

          “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I need coffee.”

 

          It feels strange to have this man in the flat, but he doesn’t touch anything, doesn’t ask questions about the more eccentric items that John hasn’t cleared away. He accepts a mug of coffee with a smile, and settles in John’s chair, as if he realizes that black leather seat is off limits, and the sofa is dicey too. John can sit there, on the sofa, and it only hurts a little.

          “Bit strange, this,” Aaron acknowledges. “I could be anybody from anywhere and you’re giving me coffee and asking for my life story.”

          John laughs a little. “My barometer of what is strange is completely fucked, to be honest. Seems okay to me, though.”

          Aaron nods.

          “So. What’ve we got in common, then? I could use a dose of someone else’s problems.”

          “I just see you grieving, you know, and I’ve been there. Know how it feels to find someone who makes things real again. It’s pretty easy to get numb over there.”

          “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asks, without thinking, hearing the echo of words from years before.

          “Iraq for me. Kuwait for awhile though. Marines. Got back and just wandered around. My family’s all gone, never had much in the first place. Then I met Kelly, and it was all okay, suddenly. I could get a job and be a normal person because she needed me to be.”

          “What happened to her?”

          “Car accident. She was crossing the street. It was dark, and it was raining, and… well, he didn’t see her in time to stop. Wasn’t her fault, or his. Just… an accident.”

          “Shit.”

          “Kind of went off the rails after that. All this bad shit I hadn’t got over came back, and I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t hold down a job, couldn’t sleep, just wanted to drink and forget it all.” He makes a face, like he hears himself and doesn’t like it. But John knows.

          “That feeling, that thing, I know you can’t really put it into words. But I know.”

          “Suppose you do. Wasn’t easy to lose her so suddenly. Can imagine it feels worse if it’s… well…”

          “A suicide?” John shakes his head a little. The word feels wrong, always has done.

          “Never thought he was one for that.” It’s a casual enough comment but it makes the hairs on John’s neck stand up, brings his blood pounding into his ears.

          “You knew him?” 

          “Well, that’s what I was saying earlier – you said Mycroft. He’s got nothing to do with it.”

          “So who… no. Sherlock? _Sherlock_ hired you to look after me?”

          “Well, not exactly. A few of us, the ones he used most, he left us a chunk of money and just said to…” he trails off.

          “What?”

          “Look, man. It’s been awhile now he’s been gone. And you’re still… well you’re not doing well are you? I don’t want to bring up…”

          “I’m doing fine, all right. Let me worry about how I handle it. I want to know what he said.”

          Aaron reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, hands it over to John with slightly shaking hands. John unfolds it and feels as if his heart has fallen to his knees at the sight of Sherlock’s scrawl.

          ‘Please, look after John.’

          He has to clap a hand to his mouth or he will absolutely _scream_. When the writing starts swimming, he squeezes his eyes shut because he will not cry in front of this stranger. He is faintly aware that he is producing something frighteningly close to a whimper in the back of his throat. He thrusts the paper out towards Aaron, who holds his hands up. “No. No, you should keep it.”

          John laughs, but it comes out a scream. “Fuck it. Forget it. This whole – fucking – _flat_ is covered in him, he’s everywhere, I don’t need this!” and he wants to crumple the paper, wants to throw it, set it on fire, swallow it whole because it’s Sherlock. But he just holds it and paces, fighting everything in his body that wants him to howl, to sob, to fall down and never get up again.

          Eventually he turns back to Aaron. “Sorry,” he says, feels his face flush.

          “Hey. I get it. Nothing to be ashamed of, all right? I’d been doing okay, for awhile, better than I was at first. And then I found a book she’d been reading, it was in the back of the car, I was living in the car by that point, and I didn’t know it was there. Finding that set me back.”

          “That was your wife, I mean, that’s different. This isn’t… that,” John is fighting for his control back, for his mask.

          “Wife, husband, partner, whatever, it’s all the same isn’t it?”

          “It wasn’t. It wasn’t that. He wasn’t my – any of that.”

          “Oh.” He’s quiet for a moment, then shrugs. “You know what, it’s still the same. You shared your lives. In whatever capacity. He was your… Sherlock.”

          John feels his stomach flip and there’s a real chance he’ll vomit all over Aaron’s shoes. His Sherlock.

 

          After Aaron goes, he folds the paper into his wallet.

 

          It isn’t until several hours later that he thinks to wonder how Sherlock got a message to his ‘network’ from the roof of St. Bart’s. It hits him more painfully than the sight of Sherlock’s words (look after John – goodbye, John, _no_ ) had done.

          He’d thought all along that Moriarty had staged that call about Mrs. Hudson.

          But it had been Sherlock, hadn’t it. To give him time to make his preparations. He’d sat there and looked at John and said _alone protects me_ and he’d known the whole time he was going to jump. He’d known he was going to leave John.

 

          He spends the night scraping flyers off brick walls, peeling away tape from light poles, squirting paint over every ‘Sherlock Holmes’ he could find.

 

          He isn’t fighting anymore.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock is beginning to admit to himself that he might have miscalculated this move. He’d slipped out of the room, leaving Jane and the phone, summoning Mycroft in case he didn’t return, and that should have been his red flag – he knew, on some level, he was probably not coming back. Sherlock doesn’t traditionally have back-up plans. The primary plan just has to work, and it usually does, but not this time. The uncontrollable variable that is Sebastian Moran has ruined it.

          From the first moment, it hadn’t gone as he’d expected. He didn’t need to find Moran at all – Moran had found him. Sherlock nearly winces with the memory of the back of his head on the pavement. He’d allowed himself to be bundled into the boot of Moran’s car. He’d reasoned that what he wanted was information, and going along for the moment would get him closer to finding it.

          But Moran had driven him a few blocks, then opened the boot and hauled him out, wrapped a blindfold around his eyes, secured his hands and feet with rope and shoved him in the backseat. He didn’t say a word for hours. The entire thing was entirely calm. Sherlock didn’t fight, or talk, though he desperately needed a drink and the toilet. He knew might have a fight ahead and it was prudent to save his energy. Moran drove so long he nearly fell asleep, lulled by the sound of the tires on the road and in total darkness from the blindfold, but his arms and legs were starting to ache from being bound behind him. He couldn’t prevent a steady sigh of relief when the car stopped and he was yanked out, Moran’s hands hooked under his arms and dragging him up stairs, then down stairs, left left right different texture of the floor beneath his dragging heels, left and through a door on the right, down more stairs, colder, damp, concrete under his feet. He reflected idly that he makes for a very poor kidnap victim, as he could find his way back out from the texture of the floors alone.

          But he didn’t want out. He wanted to come face to face with this man and find out what he knew, what Sherlock still needed to do to take it all apart, and then…

          Kill him.

          It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Sherlock isn’t a killer. He will, if he needs to, but it’s an inelegant solution. Even when it’s done with panache, which he always appreciates. He isn’t bothered by the loss of life, necessarily, though once he thinks about it he realizes he does mind the waste. It’s just that killing someone is such a last resort. Forcing someone to jump from a building is _such_ a last resort. Disappointing.

          These thoughts have raced through Sherlock’s mind before Moran has even left the room. He doesn’t speak a word, slams a door and Sherlock hears a key in a lock, and a series of beeps.

          And then nothing.

          Moran hasn’t untied him, nor removed his blindfold. He still needs a piss, and the cramps in his arms and legs are stabbing pains, now. He works himself into a sitting position and is able to rotate his shoulder up enough to work the blindfold off. It doesn’t help him much but cuts down on the panic that had started to build in his stomach. Sherlock disapproves of panic, generally, it is the body exerting itself over the mind and it can rarely be controlled with logic. He remembers the sick feeling in his stomach as he stood on the ledge at Bart’s, knowing that even though he had this planned, he had hoped not to have to use it, and fearing besides the plan going wrong. He had repeated in his head, over and over, that it would work, that it would be all right, that it was the only way. But he couldn’t stop tears from bubbling over when he saw John, heard John’s voice, and realized what he was about to do. He was about to leave John.  

          It won’t help to think of that, here, now. Sherlock can control his mind better than this, surely? He takes stock of his situation but there is precious little to note. Solid concrete walls, no windows, the single door from which Moran had exited, which had no knob on the inside. Fluorescent lights flickered dimly on the low ceiling – very low, it would be just enough for Sherlock to stand fully. He can bend at the knees and use his feet to push himself backwards, but the motion sends waves of pain through his cramped calves. He bites down on his lip and continues scooting until his back hits a wall, and he can rest against it.

          He tries to force his mind to go blank, which rarely works but is worth a try because the nagging feeling of panic is still there and he cannot give over to it. Focus on the plan. What is Moran’s goal? He’s been eliminating loose ends, but why? To get the business under his control or to dissolve it entirely? What would his orders from Moriarty have been? Get rid of anyone who could identify Moriarty as what he really was? To protect the cover story cooked up to ruin Sherlock? Could it have been that important to Moriarty, that Sherlock be ruined, that he would give up his empire, or at least appear to?

          Of course. Of course it would be that important. Because it would mean Moriarty _won_ which seemed to be his primary concern. That he meet an individual unlike any other, not ordinary, and that he beat him. So important that he died to ensure it happened the way he wanted.

          It didn’t, though. Sherlock had been ahead of him. It was Sherlock who had won. Sitting on the cold concrete floor with his arms and legs numb and a flare of panic in his throat, it didn’t feel that much like a victory.

 

          Pure exhaustion must’ve pulled him into sleep because when his eyes flutter back open, Moran is crouched in front of him. He swallows hard, trying not to betray his shock at his sudden appearance. He’s untying the rope around his feet with quick, harsh tugs. Without looking up, he grunts. “Mornin’, Holmes.”

          Sherlock tries to answer but finds his throat too dry to cooperate. Moran smirks at him and yanks him forward, works the knot around his wrists loose, sets a bottle of water next to him, and steps back. He leans against the opposite wall, one knee bent, foot resting flat against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches as Sherlock flexes his numb fingers, trying to get the blood flowing in them, fumbling with the lid of the water bottle. He finally gets it off and restrains himself to a few small sips, not knowing if this is all he gets.

          “Pretty fucking impressive trick. Jumping off of Bart’s. Getting everyone to think you’re dead.”

          “Yes, I thought so, too.”

          “So I would never see you coming? That was the plan, right? Find me, only maybe you didn’t know it was me you were looking for, exactly.”

          “I’d certainly never heard of you before, no point in pretending otherwise.”

          “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

          “That’s how it was intended. You managed to fly entirely under my radar, Mr. Moran. That is… impressive. And unwelcome.”

          Moran smirks. “Unwelcome. Yeah, I usually am that. Though you could argue I’m doing your work for you, and faster at that.”

          “You’ve certainly been efficient, but the endless killing of everyone who’s ever heard of Moriarty isn’t _my_ work.”

          There’s an invitation there, for Moran to ask what Sherlock’s business is, then. But he doesn’t. He shrugs one shoulder, lets his foot down. “Speaking of, I’ve got to get back to it. You can stay here, if you like.” He makes a sweeping gesture to the room. “Want anything while I’m out?”

          Sherlock doesn’t respond before he’s stalked out of the room again, lock, beeps. Sherlock’s gotten nowhere. One point for Moran.

 

          He can’t keep track of the time in the artificial light, and his eyes keep sliding shut despite his fight to keep them open. Something in the water, maybe, but he finishes it anyway and waits as long as he possibly can before he has to resort to pissing in the corner of the room. He stalks the room, feels the walls, finds no signs of cameras or of anything, at all. Just Sherlock. At irregular intervals, the door will bang open and Moran will set down a paper napkin, a peanut butter sandwich or some crackers on it, more bottles of water. He always leaves without saying a word.

 

          Sherlock lets this go on four times. The fifth time the door opens, he fires off the question before Moran can leave the room. “If you’re so good, why did Moriarty send you away?”

          He thinks it’s the right question, thinks it shows that he is ignorant of the reality of the situation while also questioning Moriarty’s faith in him. Thinks it will provoke defensiveness, an emotional response, a desire to correct Sherlock’s presumably incorrect assumption. In total he is certain Moran will snap to take the bait. He waits. But Moran just stands facing the door, his shoulders slumped, like something about this question is defeating. Finally his response comes, slow, in the unhurried grumble that seems to just be his voice all the time. “Thought you of all people wouldn’t ask me something so boring.”

          “I hardly think it’s boring,” Sherlock starts to argue. Moran turns on him and his face is the blank mask that Sherlock finds indescribably, unaccountably chilling.

          “Want me to answer questions for you? Fine, we can do that. But make ‘em good ones. Better yet, how about I ask _you_ some questions?”

          He’s not leaving, so Sherlock shrugs, attempts to look as if he couldn’t care either way. But his heart is thrumming because he might finally be able to make some progress. “I think you’ll find I’m not in a position to dictate terms.”

          Moran actually produces what looks like it could become a genuine smile at that. “Don’t play me, Holmes. You’re always dictating terms. You’re supposed to be bloody _dead_ yet here you are, fucking with my life some more. You do nothing _but_ dictate terms.”

          “But right now I’m sitting in an empty room in god-knows-where, no one has a clue where I am, and as far as I can see there’s no way out. I would argue you’re in control right now.”

          “You see me holding a gun? Don’t act like you couldn’t scrap with me. You probably wouldn’t win, but there’s a good enough change you could knock me out at least long enough to get out of here.” Sherlock opens his mouth to respond and is cut off. “And _don’t_ pretend like you don’t know exactly how many steps and turns it took you to get here. I’m a lot of things, Holmes, but you fucking listen to this: I’m not stupid. We both know the only reason you’re sitting here is because that’s the way you wanted it.”

          “And why would I want that?”

          “Why do you do anything? Because you have to know. You have to solve it. You could’ve gone back to your life anytime—“

          “I couldn’t!”  

          “Sure. To protect your friends, sure. Too bad there’s not a genius on hand to figure out a way around that. Don’t pretend, to me or to yourself, that this isn’t more than that. You don’t have to disassemble ‘the web’ – I’ve got it under control. You can go home. Right now, if you want.”

          Sherlock sits perfectly still. He can’t be serious. There’s no way he’s serious.

          “Holmes. Look at me. I don’t give a fuck about this bullshit game of yours. I could’ve put a bullet in your head anytime and you wouldn’t have seen me coming.”

          “Why didn’t you?”

          Moran doesn’t answer that. His fingers clench and unclench and a muscle in his jaw is jumping. He obviously wants a cigarette, wants out of the room, wants to strangle Sherlock. What he doesn’t want to do, or maybe can’t do, is answer the question.  

          “Just… let’s leave it.”

          “I can’t leave, then?” and it’s a challenge: I know you were bluffing.

          “Wasn’t trying to fool you into thinking I was turning you loose.”

          “Then what?”

          “Confirming what I already knew. You won’t leave without what you came for. And helping you realize that I know why you’re here, and I don’t give a shit and I’m not scared because you need me. And it’s better that you’re somewhere I can keep an eye on you. So, our needs align pretty well for the time being.”

          Sherlock swallows a dozen questions, his head frankly spinning from the complete unexpectedness of Moran’s tactics. “And when they cease to align?”

          It’s quiet for a few minutes. Moran’s tilted his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to staunch a nosebleed. Finally he lowers his gaze to meet Sherlock’s. “I don’t do plans. So. I guess we’ll see.”


	12. Chapter 12

            Mycroft does not handle frustration well. If a situation cannot be overcome by his influence, he manipulates. Where manipulation fails, he bullies. Where bullying fails, he threatens. When threats fail, he follows through on them. That nearly always sorts the problem, or removes the problem, and Mycroft gets what he wants. The things he intends to happen go as he intends them. Very, very rarely is this not the case. When it is, it typically involves Sherlock. So he shouldn’t be surprised, really, that they’ve failed to turn up Sebastian Moran.

            That doesn’t make it easier.

            They are holed up in Mycroft’s hotel room--turned office--staring at photos and video footage and airline passenger rosters from the date of Sherlock’s disappearance. They have been doing this for nearly a week and are no closer to finding Moran – or Sherlock. Jane is reading through the statements collected from employees of both motels – the one where Moran’s credit card was used and the one Jane herself was staying in with Sherlock. No one had seen anything the evening of his disappearance. Moran had left his room without checking out at the front desk, and had not returned. The documentation he’d used to book the room was under the name of an already known alias, giving them no new information, and the credit card hadn’t been used since.

            Jane sighs and pushes the stack of papers away, dropping her head onto the desk. She falls asleep in minutes, cradling her head on her forearms. Mycroft feels an odd tug in his chest and shakes her shoulder gently. “Jane. Go get some rest. We’re clearly getting nowhere.”

            She mumbles back, voice muffled in her arms, “The problem? Russia is too damn big.”

            “No CCTV,” he counters.

            “How do they expect a spy to get any work done?”

            They both laugh and it sounds good, but not as good as a thousand other nights spent this same way, but there were more voices in the mix then, weren’t there? Mycroft hasn’t removed his hand from her shoulder and it suddenly makes her want to scream. She straightens up and his hand slips off her. He retreats across the room and attempts to appear as if the last few moments hadn’t happened.

            “We can… get back to it in the morning, then,” and she slips out the door without hearing his response. The corridor between this room and hers is silent and still but she finds she cannot relax, keeps turning her head looking for something, a tingly feeling at the back of her neck. She glances behind her but the door to Mycroft’s room remains closed, and no one else appears. She only feels herself breathe once she’s in her own room, door clicking shut behind her, and sinking into the ludicrously large and soft bed. Just like the old days, she thinks, and runs a hand across the empty space beside her. Well. Not exactly.

            Grief squeezes her chest at the thought. It is as bad as it ever was, it has never hurt less, and she’s starting to worry it never will. If nothing reminds her she can keep it at bay, but Mycroft, the job – it’s too much. She presses her face into the pillow and has started to drift back to sleep when the Blackberry Mycroft had forced her to take chimes on the desk. She is out of bed and at it without blinking. She scrolls through the images sent back from her contact and fear spikes in her stomach. _Shit_.

 

            After Jane’s abrupt exit, Mycroft settled into the chair she’d been in, surveyed the spread of photos and documents on the table. It was sobering to think that this man, Sebastian Moran, who by all accounts was of average intelligence, had been so thoroughly able to outwit him for so long. Ah, there – perhaps Mycroft is overanalyzing, thinking too much. What is it that Sherlock says – the simplest explanation is often the best? That idea sits uncomfortably in Mycroft’s mind, a place where convolution reigns supreme. He can follow the trail of his thoughts and no one else can, not even Sherlock. It is perhaps a weakness in this situation.

            It appears likely that Moran did not get on a plane. No petrol station attendants within a reasonable radius had recognized photos of Moran. Couldn’t risk showing photos of Sherlock, not when the world believed him dead. Reasonable to assume he’d simply driven somewhere within the distance of a tank of petrol. That leaves a disconcerting amount of room for inaccuracy, but it’s the only solid thing they have to go on. Jane is right. Russia is simply too big. Even if they had the ability to knock on every door in a two hundred mile radius of the motel where Sherlock was taken (and they could do if Mycroft made a few calls), they had no authority on which to do so. Might do it anyway, he reflects, thinking of cover stories to use – survey takers, distributing religious pamphlets – but he is interrupted in his scheming by a keycard in the door, and Jane shoving her Blackberry in his face, her hands shaking, her breath coming in gasps. He stands and pushes her gently into the soft armchair by the window. “Jane, really, you mustn’t hyperventilate.”

            “But – Dr. Watson –“ and Mycroft feels his stomach drop, and he turns his attention to the screen, thumbing through a series of emails and photos. John painting over a graffitied wall, John tearing down flyers, John moving out of 221B, and Sherlock’s headstone, without adornment for the first time in memory. Nothing which should have provoked such a response in Jane.

            “Yes, I see, he’s had a change of heart, hasn’t he? But that’s really—“

            “It doesn’t make _sense_ , he’s been absolutely devoted to Sherlock for, what, 2 years? And now suddenly he’s giving up? What changed?”

            “You think he’s responding to a threat?”

            “No, I didn’t… that could be the case actually but I didn’t… my first thought was…” but now she’s hesitant, her breathing has steadied, the flush is going from her cheeks. The knowledge hits Mycroft rather painfully and without thinking he is sinking to his knees before her, to look at her closely.

            “John Watson isn’t going to commit suicide. That’s simply not going to happen. He isn’t that man.”

            “Good men do it. Brave men do it. When they don’t see any hope left,” and she means her voice to be biting but it doesn’t take. She sounds exhausted.

            “Certainly. I’m not disparaging the character of a man who would choose that course—“

            “Fuck it, Mycroft. Derek. We’re talking about Derek, let’s not pretend otherwise.”

            His name from her lips is like a brick settling in his stomach. “Yes. Well. Perfectly natural that your mind would draw parallels, but John – not to say that’s he’s a better man than that, just that he – wouldn’t.”

            Jane plucks the phone from his hand and scrolls to the last photo. “This?” and she turns it, shows him John’s face, something utterly empty in his eyes, his normally wildly expressive face inscrutable. “This is the face of a man who has nothing left to live for.”

            It is both a statement of fact and an accusation. Mycroft takes the phone back and sets it aside. He sees where her fingers are trembling and wants to close his own fingers around them. He doesn’t. He clears his throat. “What would you have me do?”

            “Tell him. Tell him the truth.”

            “That Sherlock faked his death, and now has been kidnapped? That I’ve no idea where he is or if he’s even still alive? You think that information would be helpful to John? If he is indeed in danger of harming himself, do you think hearing that would dissuade him?”

            “Yes. It would give him something to fight for.”

            “And if we don’t find him? Or we do find him, but too late? Is it wise to give him false hope?”

            “Better than no hope.”

            Mycroft tries to imagine telling John and can think of no scenario which ends well. “I don’t think it’s wise.”

            Jane grits her teeth and leans back in her chair, putting as much space between them as she can. He reaches out to her, borne of some perverse impulse, takes her hand, and she explodes. “It’s not your decision! Other people’s lives, Mycroft, you might control them but you don’t own them, you son of a bitch. You don’t get to decide what the right thing is for somebody else! You don’t understand, you don’t know how it feels to lose like this, you don’t feel anything at all!” She stands above him and he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just lets her shout at him, her hands clenched into fists, white knuckled and if she wants to hit him, he will allow it.

            “I believe I am acting in John’s best interest. Just as I acted in yours, and although the outcome was unfortunate, I do not regret my actions. I could lie to you and say I do. It’s not a lie that I am deeply sorry for your loss, and your suffering. But I would make the same decisions again.”

            She stares hard at him. “Because it worked. We got the information we needed.”

            “Precisely.”

            “And my husband’s death was just an ‘unfortunate’ outcome of your brilliant plan.”

            “As I have said _repeatedly_ , I am sorry for your loss.”

            “But you don’t think you bear the responsibility?”

            “Certainly not. His actions were his own.”

            “You told him that his wife was dead!”

            Mycroft stands and steps back, looking at her down the length of his nose. “You needed to be dead. Or they would have seen you coming.”

            “Didn’t think I needed to know that part of the plan, though? Didn’t think I might object?”

            “I knew you would object, that is why I didn’t tell you.”

            Silence falls between them as Jane appears to be debating her next move.

            “I’m telling him. I don’t care if you disagree. You’re not in charge here, Mycroft. Try to stop me. I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

            His voice is low and she nearly has to lean in to hear him. “Oh, will you? I don’t think so, somehow.” He reaches a hand to her, long fingers brush her hair back, graze her cheek, and it’s the ghost of a motion he’s made countless times before, and she is sick with it. She slaps his hand away.

            “Try me.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastion attempts to get answers.

          Sebastian lets out a shaky breath and leans against the wall outside the room where he’s holding Sherlock. He looks down at his shaking hands and reflects that it’s a good job he doesn’t make plans. This would certainly not have been part of it.

 

          He’d spent a few days mostly ignoring Holmes, hoping he’d work himself into a panic, start going stir crazy, do something interesting. But he just fucking sat there, placid, face purposefully blank when Sebastian entered the room. Sebastian wanted Holmes where he could keep an eye on him, planned on killing him eventually, but it was too good an opportunity not to draw it out. Only Holmes wasn’t playing along. Was being _boring_. The worst offense Sebastian, Jim, or Sherlock himself could think of.

          After the first day of Holmes’ eerie stillness and uncharacteristic quiet, he stopped putting the sedative, mild as it was, in his food and water. But the stillness remained. He tried to remember what Jim had said about him – that his mind _rebels at stagnation,_ that in the absence of a diverting case he would tear his flat apart. He must be working on a problem, then. And he realized it, then: If he wanted Sherlock to play, he’d have to play too. 

 

        He moved the operation into a different room of the compound, better suited to interrogations. Cuffed him, wrists and ankles, chain anchored to the floor. He had enough slack to sit in one of the chairs, on either side of the table, a classic police setup. He could even lie down on the bed, but he stood ramrod straight against the wall. Sebastian smirked at him and sat in a chair himself. "We might as well be comfortable. Think we need to have a conversation."

Sebastian leaned his elbows on the table, cupping his chin in his hand. Casual. Not in a hurry, see? Holmes shuffled to the chair and sat down heavily, overbalancing against the weight of the chains. Holmes stared back at him, placid and blinking slow, like his eyelids were fighting against him. And for no reason at all, he pictured Jim, his heavy, tired eyes in the days before they separated. The way Jim was just so tired.

          He couldn’t explain why but it struck him for the first time. Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, he realized _he was the last man to see Jim alive_. He was fucking there when he died. And he’s smart, Holmes, and Jim just – fucking – talked, all the time, he would’ve talked. He knows, _he knows why_. The drugs have made Sherlock’s reactions a bit slower than usual, so Sebastian can actually see the delicious moment when the bright flash of pain hits him. Crack, right on the cheekbone, upward thrust into the eye socket. Hurts like hell, that shot.

          Sherlock looks briefly surprised, then settles his face back into its usual impassivity.  

          Of the questions that are swirling around his mind, Sebastian can’t speak any of them. He wants to grab Sherlock and shake him, ask him what happened on that rooftop, what Jim said, why, how, how could it possibly be true? How could James Moriarty, the most brilliant and powerful man he’d ever known, just – bang – disappear? But he can’t. If that’s his first question, Holmes will know the truth – how he feels – and that’s far too powerful a weapon to place in an enemy’s hands.

          He settles for generic, bland, completely useless questions. Why were you following me. What do you expect to accomplish. How, in bloody fuck, did you survive? (How did you survive when Jim didn’t, _how did you beat him_ ). Holmes gives a vague explanation – assistance from a friend, body double, details unimportant. “I’m trying to solve a problem, Mr. Moran. I’m trying to solve the final problem.”

          Jim’s words coming out of his mouth, Sebastian can’t stop his fist from crushing against the underside of Holmes’ chin. His teeth clack together and he winces, finally breaking composure just a bit. But it’s enough. Sebastian is out of his seat and leaning into Sherlock’s face in seconds. “Final problem, huh? You worked out what it was, then?”

          Sherlock is silent for minutes that feel like hours. Sebastian’s heart is thumping and he hopes Sherlock can’t hear it – doesn’t want to give away his anxiety. His desperate, furious hope that he _has_ worked it out – because Sebastian never did. “I’m not fond of saying these words, Mr. Moran. But no. I did not work it out. I knew he wanted me dead – one way or another he’d have me dead. But the fake code, the assassins, Richard Brook – the staging is quite elaborate,” he sounds almost as if he is talking to himself, reciting his facts.

          “Well. Elaborate was kinda his thing, wasn’t it.”

          “Yes, I suppose. It still eludes me, the _point_ of it all.”

          Seb thinks, ‘You. _You_ were the point.’ But he stays silent, staring down at Holmes, who has gotten lost in thought. Maybe that’s the wrong expression for a mind like his, but Sebastian doesn’t **have** a mind like his, and that has always been the problem. It’s an old resentment, an anger that’s festered in his gut for too long. _Fuck it._ What’s he got left to lose? Anything he had that mattered is gone. Maybe he never even had it to start with. He casually lays a hand on Holmes’ hair, slowly drawing his fingers into a fist within the curls—shorter now but enough to grab onto, more than enough to be effective. He suddenly yanks, viciously, snapping Sherlock’s neck back. He leans down until he can feel the man’s breath on his cheek. “All right, Holmes. You’re going to tell me a story.”

 

 

          It’s been hours of this, spread over 2 days from Sebastian’s initial decision to move him into a more interrogation-friendly location. He’s strapped Holmes down to the bed now, sits next to him, the weight of Holmes’ torso pressed against his thigh where the mattress dips.

          “Again,” he orders, through clenched teeth. “Tell me again.”

          Sherlock is trembling slightly, goosebumps raised on his clavicle where Sebastian has pressed the tip of his knife. His body is giving him away, for which Sebastian is grateful, because his goddamn mouth is still insisting he isn’t afraid, isn’t going to beg, isn’t going to lose his composure.

          “How many times do I need to say it? Surely you aren’t _that_ slow.”

          Seb pushes down slightly and revels in the drop of blood that wells up, rests on the surface of his skin, thick. An increasingly loud part of him desperately wants to lean down and collect that drop with his tongue, like the secret is in Sherlock’s blood. This part of him is at war with the part that wants to give this up, doesn’t give a fuck anymore, just wants to dash the blade across the bastard’s throat and go eat dinner.

          “Don’t fucking push me, Holmes.”

          “I’m not trying to. I simply cannot put more meaning to the same words I’ve repeated several times. If he was alive, I could use him. He knew I could still win.”

          “You couldn’t have. He couldn’t have believed you could—“

          “You imagine I would be incapable of beating Jim Moriarty?”

          Seb swallows hard. Disloyalty, even now, is not his style. But the truth? “No. Just, I can’t imagine _he_ would believe it.” But Sebastian has seen steel in Sherlock’s eyes before, seen his penchant for heroics – knows he could have, would have, done anything to protect his friends.

          “Unfortunately, I can’t shed any light on that for you. Contrary to popular belief, I cannot read minds. I’ve no idea what he was thinking.”

          But Sebastian is beginning to get it, a realization barreling down on him. He draws the knife back, leans away. “He was bored. He was bored and he started this game with you. He was just… finishing it.”

          “It can’t just have been about that. Beating me.” He sounds impatient, which brings the back of Sebastian’s hand down hard across his face, his knee pushing into Sherlock’s ribs.

          “It was fucking always about you. Burning you. Your heart, he said.” Sebastian remembers Jim’s voice in the pool, sitting inside a curtained dressing area, dancing laser pointers over Sherlock and John. _Bring the rifle, but we’re not going to need it. I’m not done playing yet._

          Sherlock is biting his lip against the steady pain of Seb’s knee buried in his already bruised ribs. “My heart, yes.”

          “Fairytale ending, in his own way. The hero vanquishes the villain, sacrifices himself for love. I’ve gotta tell you, I didn’t think it’d work. Thought you loved yourself too much to sacrifice for others. ‘Course, as it turns out, you do.”

          Sherlock looks startled. “I jumped. To protect them. Is that not sacrificing?”

          It’s not. It’s not because he can still get his happy ending, he could be whole again and Sebastian won’t, he won’t _ever_ be whole again and it isn’t – fucking – _fair_ – and it never has been, in fact he is often the one making sure things aren’t fair but it’s never been this way, with the pain and injustice of it crouching in his chest, and if it rips its way out it’ll kill him for sure. He’s never learned how to make it go away but he’s learned to listen to it. So he stands up, rolls his neck. Retreats.

          “If it were fucking sacrificing, you’d be dead.”

          He’s at the door when he hears Sherlock speak, softer than anything he’s heard out of him yet. “But I am. In the ways that matter. I am.”

          Sebastian can think of no reply, but holds the door so that it shuts gently behind him. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for Sherlock continues. Now with more John Watson!

            On the way back to London, Jane had realized she had no idea how to tell John that his best friend had faked his death, and even less idea how to explain that even though he hadn’t died then, he might be dead now. At the very least is being held captive by a psychopath.

            It was unnervingly easy to find him at his new flat, not a bad location, his new job giving him stable hours. It was significantly less easy to convince him to talk to her. As soon as she mentioned Sherlock, he shook his head and started to shut the door in her face. She’d resorted to sticking her foot in, knowing he was too much of a gentleman to push her. She hurriedly tried to explain who she was, that she used to work for Mycroft and been trying to hunt down Moriarty’s associates. She left out Sherlock entirely until they were sitting at a café down the street from John’s flat.

            She’d shown him a photograph of Sherlock that she had snapped on her phone some months prior, in preparation for a time when she would need to brandish it to ask people ‘have you seen this great idiot, he’s wandered off on his own.’ He had taken the phone from her hand to study the photo more closely, peering at it with an entirely inscrutable expression. Seemingly without realizing what he was doing, he traced his finger along Sherlock’s jawline. Sherlock’s hair was shorter in the photo than John had ever seen it, and it was only this that seemed to convince him. When he appeared satisfied, he nodded once and cleared his throat. “What do we need to do to get him back, then?”

            She’d been so afraid that John was broken, that his grief was dangerous, that he was done fighting. She said as much and was surprised at her delight when a slow grin took over his face.

            “I thought I was done fighting, too. I really did. But if he’s out there, I’ve got to go get him.”

 

-

 

            Jane hopes she will never forget the look on Mycroft’s face when she turned back up at the hotel three days after they’d argued, John Watson in tow. He was furious and frightened and disapproving and also, somehow, proud? She watched these expressions flick over his features in rapid succession and nearly cracked a rib trying not to laugh.

            John apparently felt no need to restrain himself, and his surprisingly high giggle was infectious, and even Mycroft had a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth before long. John collapsed into a chair and fixed his gaze on Mycroft. “So. How do we go about finding the complete git you call a brother?”

 

           

            John and Jane both end up with headaches from squinting at property maps that Mycroft has somehow acquired. They show every building within the hot zone surrounding where Sherlock was taken, and a significant cushion beyond it. In Jane’s absence to retrieve John, Mycroft has exerted some influence and persuaded the militsiya to assist him in narrowing down their targets. They have done so to a considerable degree, only 7 locations likely to be able to house a fugitive assassin and his detainee without attracting attention. It’s a question of size, mostly, and proximity of neighbors. Most locations were ruled out simply by a sweep, and Mycroft was momentarily jealous of the state’s power in this country.

            As for the remaining locations, John’s game to tuck his gun into the small of his back and start kicking in doors. Jane thinks they ought to be a bit more calculated, but wants to take action as much as John does. When they articulate this desire to Mycroft, he simply stares at his desk, unblinking. “I can’t imagine a place that could hold my brother if he were determined to get out.”

            “What’s your point?” John snaps. That’s the only way he speaks to Mycroft – in snaps. Jane’s own anger towards the man seems tame compared to the seething rage beneath John’s skin each time he even glances at Mycroft.

            “Perhaps he doesn’t want to get out.”

            Jane sighs. “He went after Moran on purpose, sure, but who knows—“

            John makes a sound Jane hasn’t heard from him and is alarmed to see he’s dropped his head onto the table, mumbling. “Of course he went on purpose – of course he bloody did. God damn it, Sherlock.”

            Jane and Mycroft exchange a glance and let John sit in silence for a few minutes. Jane finally clears her throat and continues. “Mycroft, who knows what’s happening now. He could be injured and unable to escape even if he wanted to. I don’t think we should assume anything.”

            “Sherlock needed information from Moran. Perhaps we should give him a chance to acquire it.”

            Jane shakes her head at John, who has started to rise from his seat, fist clenched. He remains seated but is staring daggers at Mycroft. If that look were being leveled at her, Jane would be running. “Mycroft. What happened? What changed? You came here to find him, we’ve been looking for a way – then suddenly you think we should stop?”

            “I simply had cause to remember that the best way to solve these things is often to let them play out.”

            Jane sighs. “So he gets the information. He’ll have no way to get it to us before Moran kills him. Because he will kill him, Mycroft. He will. And it’ll be on your head.”

            John laughs suddenly, and the sound in the tense air of the room sends shivers up Jane’s spine. “He doesn’t care, Jane. Appealing to Sherlock’s safety isn’t going to get us anywhere. He’s always cared more about the information than he has about his brother. But she has a point, Mycroft. Say he does get the information before he’s killed – what good is that to you? If it dies with him, then what was the point?”

            Mycroft’s head snaps up. “I have tried to be patient with you both, particularly you, John. I know you’ve been grieving, you’ve been in pain, and I know that you blame me for what happened—“

            “You’re god damn right I do, because it was your fucking fault!”

            “John!” Mycroft raises his voice, stands inches from John, towering over him. Jane takes a step towards them, ready to throw herself in between should they come to blows. She doesn’t particularly care if Mycroft gets hurt, but she doesn’t want to see John arrested for assault. Again.

            For his part, John doesn’t look afraid, or even particularly angry. He is outwardly calm but Jane is getting the impression that this is a more dangerous sign than shouting or pacing or tossing furniture. He won’t telegraph his move, he’ll just make it.

            “Whatever you think of me, John, he is my brother. I certainly do not want to see him killed. But, as ever, I know things that you do not know. Things which make me better able to make a decision. And it is my decision that we, for the moment, see what comes of this.”

 

-

 

            Jane pulls her feet up and wraps her arms around her knees. She’s always been able to think better when she folds herself up into as small a space as she can manage. Derek used to sit behind her and wrap his arms over her arms, his legs around her legs, and squeeze her back against his chest, his face buried in her hair. She’d never felt safe before him, and she hadn’t felt safe since. Damn it, why can’t she just stop thinking about it?

            She’s relieved to hear a quiet knock on her door, and springs up, grabbing her gun as a reflex. She peers out the peephole to see John, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet like he isn’t sure if he’s going to run away. She swings the door open before he can change his mind. She opens her mouth to greet him or invite him in but before she gets the chance, he blurts, “I might’ve just drugged Mycroft.”

            He leads Jane quickly back to Mycroft’s room, where he is slumped over in the chair. “I came here to tell him we need to go look for – that I don’t care about his bloody power play or information or any of it. He was being difficult.”

            “Big surprise, that is.”

            They stand in silence for a moment. “It’ll last a few hours,” John finally offers.

            “It’ll be less than that before one of his ‘assistants’ comes round.”

            They look at each other. John tilts his head, a slight lift of his shoulders, a question. “I guess we better move.”

            Jane can’t control her answering grin.

            They make quick work of gathering Mycroft’s maps, his contacts, John even swipes his phone on the off chance there’s anything useful in it. Even if he won’t understand it, Jane might.

            They meet at the ice machine by the back stairs, Jane’s belongings culled down to a backpack. She’d left room at the top for John to shove in some clothes. He makes to carry the bag and she tenses, unused to chivalry or politeness for its own sake. She almost wants to laugh. In the end, she lets him carry the bag. But she opens her own doors.

 

-

 

            The first three properties indicated on Mycroft’s map are clean. The residents answered questions without hesitation. Returning to the car after the first, John shakes his head. “I shouldn’t even be surprised you speak flawless Russian.”

            “Worked here before.”

            “Why does everybody in my life have to be so bloody mysterious? So much for thinking I could live a straightforward life.”

            “With a Holmes around, no such thing.”

            John is quiet as Jane drives aimlessly, looking for a motel that doesn’t look like it’ll either notice or care about their false documents.

            “I thought there wasn’t a Holmes around, anymore,” he finally points out, quietly.

            She takes her eyes off the road to find his. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Wasn’t thinking.’

            “It’s fine. This is just… I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be feeling, right now.”

            Jane slides her eyes back to the road, swallows. This type of conversation is not her strength, but John seems a good man, and he clearly needs to say something to someone. “Been my experience there’s no real ‘supposed to’ when it comes to feeling things.”

            He just shrugs. Points out the window to a squat motel on the end of the block. “Over there. That looks like it’ll do.”

            Jane is used to years of being unnoticeable, on purpose, and it seems John is, as well. Without discussing it, they fall into a casual act, a couple tired from driving, crashing for the night. Nondescript, nothing unusual. It’s only when faced with the reality of the shared space that she wonders if it’s the right move. John stops on the threshold of the room, drawn up short by the same concern.

            “Hey, I can sleep anywhere, if you’d rather not…”

            And she shakes her head, dumps her bag on the floor. “Nah, it’s fine. Just don’t get handsy,” and their laughter dispels any tension.

            They navigate showers and dressing for bed with excessive politeness, soft chuckles at themselves for it. She slides into bed, John already in and facing away, tucks her gun under the pillow. It’s actually nice, she reflects, to have John with her. She feels like she can actually relax, knowing another competent fighter is in the room. She knows there’s no real reason for her fear. Without Sherlock, there’s no threat to them, as its unlikely anyone’s noticed they’re looking. Even if Moran did know, he’d shrug them off. A woman and a doctor. She goes to sleep content with the knowledge that they are so much more than that.

 

-

 

            By the next night, she doesn’t feel as confident. They’ve eliminated 3 of the remaining locations and are stymied over how to approach the final one, which, if it doesn’t contain Sherlock, will bring them back to the drawing board. They’re also racing Mycroft, and Jane knows that even all their best diversionary tactics won’t keep him off their scent for long. If he truly wants to stop them, he can and will, possibly any minute.

John is frustrated, sullen, using their binoculars to scan the security fence around the warehouse yet again. It’s so quiet in the car she can hear his heart hammering.

            “John. We don’t know enough to go in there. We just don’t.”

            It was either going to ease him off, or set him off. “God damn it!” Clearly the latter. “He could be in there, right now, and I’m fucking stuck out here? Useless?” He throws the binoculars into the backseat and practically kicks his door open. Jane’s out and around his side of the car before he even sees her.

            “No, John. Not useless. But we gotta be smart, you know? You’re not gonna help him if you’re hurt, or dead, got it?”

            He squeezes his eyes shut, drops his head back against the car. “If he’s hurt… if we’re too late…” He swallows, hard, and Jane feels a sympathetic lump in her own throat. She chances a hand on his arm. “I couldn’t – I couldn’t save him, before.” This last barely a whisper.

            She runs through a dozen responses in her mind, but they’re inadequate. She knows this guilt, knows it intimately. And words don’t ease it and being reminded of the reality just makes it worse. She knows what John needs to believe, he needs to think he could’ve done something. He needs to think he meant enough, he had the power, that he could have prevented it. Because she is certain that for John, knowing that he failed to save Sherlock hurts much less than acknowledging that Sherlock didn’t want to be saved. At least not by John. Finally she lets her breath rush out, tightens the hand on John’s arm. 

            “Then fuck it. Let’s go get him.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Sebastian trade.

          Sebastian has been gone for days. Sherlock’s certain he’s been injected with something, perhaps to make it so he can’t attempt escape. If he could focus, if his muscles would cooperate, he might be able to work his way out. His ankles are chained but he could pick the locks, couldn’t he, if his fingers would do what he asked. The length of chain was shorter than ever, leaving Sherlock unable to move more than a few steps from the bed, where he could have relieved himself, if he’d had anything left in him to expel. Every breath aches in his bruised ribs, and he picks at the flakes of dried blood on his chest more out of boredom than a real need to be clean. He wishes he could pull a t-shirt on, feels exposed and uncomfortable and bloody cold. A panic has started bubbling somewhere below his heart, and he swallows repeatedly against it, but it lurks there, tightening his chest even further. He curls onto his side as best as he can, tries to sleep, but his mind cannot let him, is racing with thoughts and uselessness, with opiates and memories, with questions and fears; yes, fears.

          _If he doesn’t come back I’ll die in here. The final problem, beating me, that can’t be it, just beating me, the fairytale ending, what am I missing, something is missing. I’ll die I’ll die alone in here I won’t solve it and I’ll die and John John John –_

          He screams aloud just for the sound reverberating off the walls, just so there is something outside himself but the quiet and dim, the cold empty stretch of the room, filled with nothing nothing nothing but the puffs of his breath in his ears, and the fear that he’ll die and it will have been for nothing because he still doesn’t know.

          _Focus._

          ‘That’s your weakness. You always want everything to be clever.’

          He’s replayed his final encounter with Moriarty plenty of times, and never really heard that. He hears Moriarty’s words, reproachful, in his ear as if the man were in the room. ‘But did you listen?’ and he bites down on his lip to avoid answering his own mind. No. He didn’t listen. There is no final problem. There was just Moriarty, a gunshot Sherlock genuinely did not see coming. You’re me. Thank you. Bless you. That smile and his eyes, what was that in his eyes? Was it was peace? Was it was gratitude? That Sherlock the brilliant, Moriarty’s reflection, the only adversary he’d ever found worthy, could be beaten.

          He must have thought it was worth the price. His life. Staying alive. _It’s so boring isn’t it?_

 

          When Sebastian comes back, he is glimmering around the edges. Sherlock winces when he throws on the light, his pupils dilated ridiculously – so many more factors than arousal, than fear, he didn’t think, but she did love him, didn’t she, how can you _ever_ know that, ‘the chemistry is simple’, wrong, stupid – stupid –

          “Hey, there. Come on back, now,” and Sebastian’s voice is gently concerned, which is somehow more frightening than anything that’s gone before, and Sherlock wants to run and run but he can’t get up, can’t even keep his eyes on the threat –

          Sherlock feels Sebastian’s fingers slide into his hair, and all he can think is how desperately he wants to go home.

          “No answers for me, then?” Sebastian breathes, because, yes of course, he was meant to be thinking of things to say to Sebastian – to explain what happened, his responsibility for Moriarty’s death – because he was responsible, wasn’t he, and that’s why Sebastian was going to kill him, here, and John wouldn’t even know –

          The fingers in his hair tug, and Sherlock comes back, to the deep brown of Sebastian’s eyes, brow furrowed in what? Anger, disappointment, worry? Why should he be worried?

          Sherlock tries to lick his lips, has no moisture with which to do so. Sebastian disappears again, and something like a sob gets caught in Sherlock’s dry throat. He closes his eyes again, is too tired to be startled or pull away when Sebastian’s weight dips the mattress again. Sebastian lifts Sherlock’s hand and presses his fingers around a cold glass. He wants to lift it to his mouth, or lift his mouth to it, but it’s heavy and his arm is trembling to even keep his fist closed around it. Sebastian tilts is against his lips but he pours too much and Sherlock splutters. He hears a sigh, a tiny splash, and then a cool, damp finger is tracing moisture over his mouth. He can’t stop himself from darting his tongue out to lave at the wet fingers, collecting the moisture he finds there. Sebastian continues dipping his fingers, bringing them back to Sherlock’s mouth, until his throat feels more like mud than gravel, and he can work his tongue around the words, Moriarty’s own words, “Why does anyone do anything?”

          Sebastian is quiet, his fingers, warm now, come to rest on Sherlock’s cheek, and he would flinch but then they are gently stroking, and he cannot help the feeble tears that gather in the corners of his eyes, not thick enough to roll anywhere. He wants Sebastian to wipe them away. Thinks John might have done.

          He speaks again, someone else’s words again, and hopes that Sebastian will hear it for the explanation it is. “Anything, anything at all, to stop being bored.”

          He keeps his eyes closed, just feels Sebastian’s presence, and it’s enough that he’s not alone anymore. A thought from very far away just says, let him kill me, and it’s with this thought in mind that Sherlock finally, _finally!_ slides into sleep.

 

          He is not awakened gently, does not have an opportunity to drift back into consciousness, just opens his eyes at the sharp point of a needle in the back of his hand. He hisses at the pain, and Sebastian lifts an eyebrow.

          “Not my fault you have shit veins, is it?”

          It’s gotta be pure adrenaline, whatever is burning into him right now. “What are you giving me?”

          “Just a little something to wake you up. We’ve got work to do.”

          Despite the fire in his veins, he sags back against the mattress, feels the hot, damp impression he’d left behind. “What work? I’ve told you everything.”

          “Not about him. You’re right, you’ve got nothing left to say about that.”

          “Then what?”

          ‘You never asked why I was killing everyone.”

          “I assumed so you couldn’t be linked to Moriarty’s crimes. So you could cover his tracks, and yours.”

          “I was never linked to them while he was alive, it sure as shit isn’t gonna happen now he’s dead. The only threat I ever faced was him turning me in in his own place. Hardly need to worry about that now. No, I just wanted it over. Only now I’m thinking I could make it work.”

          “What do you need me for?”

          “Look, I wasn’t – this shouldn’t be a surprise really but, I wasn’t the brains of this thing. I knew some things. Things the boss needed me to know. Few things I figured out on my own. But you think I can run this thing by myself? And it needs to be run. Every day that goes by, things are falling apart. I’m losing contacts—‘

          “That might be because you keep killing them.”

          Sebastian smirks. “Only the unimportant ones. I never kill someone who might be useful.”

          Sebastian reaches down and undoes the cuffs at Sherlock’s ankles. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

          Sherlock stares at his freed legs in disbelief. It can’t be that easy. Sebastian isn’t brilliant, but he isn’t stupid either, and he’s certainly not reckless.

          “What makes you think I would help you? You’ve got nothing keeping me here. What’s to stop me from killing you right now?”

          Something which is not a grin, or a smirk, or a sneer, but some horrid combination of the three, slides sideways onto Sebastian’s face. He reaches into his bag and extracts a small screen, not unlike a baby monitor. He turns the screen towards Sherlock, who snatches it up and stares in disbelief at the image on the screen. Sebastian’s next words are entirely unnecessary.

          “Because. I’ve got your brother.”

          Sherlock scoffs against the hammering of his heart. “And you think I’ll help you run a criminal organization so you don’t hurt my brother? It somehow escaped your notice, did it, that my brother and I hardly talk?”

          “In the last few weeks before your swandive, sure. But before that? You called him from Baskerville. He comforted you in the morgue when you thought that bitch was dead.”

          Sherlock cannot even be surprised that he knows these things, really. He’s always had Moriarty’s eyes on him, hasn’t he?

          “And then suddenly, nothing. A rift between the brothers. Jim assumed you found out he’s the one who gave us what he had on you. Thought you cut him out. It was an act, though, wasn’t it? So there wouldn’t be a fourth sniper. So you would have an ally left, and a powerful one at that.”

          It’s got to be the injection making his vision go spotty, his heart racing, pulling in air in gasps. Not Mycroft, without Mycroft to help him, how will he ever get home?

          “What do you expect me to do?”

          “Give me everything you have, everything you’ve found out about us, about the work. I need it in one place, and we’ll go from there.”

 

          In the space of less than an hour, Sherlock has turned his brain upside down, pulling out everything he has stored away labeled Moriarty, to write it down, to map it out for Sebastian, who shrugs and says, I like maps best, easier for me to understand. He embellishes, adds information Sherlock didn’t have, and for the first time in days Sherlock almost relaxes, having a task and setting about completing it. Working in silence with a partner.

          “And you’re just going to let my brother go when I’ve finished?”

          Sebastian nods. “God knows I don’t want to keep him. Right bastard if you ask me.” Sherlock feels his mouth twisting into one of his side-smiles, the real ones, and he bites down on the insides of his cheeks to stop it. He’s standing beside Sebastian’s chair, bracing himself on the back of it, leaning down, and it’s almost as if he’s comfortable. He glances sideways at the hard lines of Sebastian’s face, the shadow of stubble on his cheeks, a thin scar he’d never noticed running down the side of his neck beneath his ear. Sebastian smells nice, mostly like soap but faintly sweaty, and unexpectedly Sherlock feels his mouth water.

          Sebastian looks up at him suddenly, likely feeling the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze. “Got me all figured out, yet?” He licks his lips, and for some reason Sherlock can’t pull his eyes off Sebastian’s mouth.

          “I’m sorry?”

“Well, I’m not much to look at and you’ve been looking an awful long time. Figured you were doing your thing.”       

          “You’re plenty to look at, I think. But you’re wrong. I’m not figuring you out at all.”

          “Bundle of surprises, that’s me.” There’s a smile playing at the corners of Sebastian’s eyes, but he squints back at a piece of paper and holds it up. “The fuck’s this chicken scratch supposed to say? Thought your bloke was the doctor, not you.”

          It’s a simple comment, offhand, but it entirely changes the air in the room. Sherlock tenses along his spine, pulls up to his full height, stares down at the top of Sebastian’s head. He looks up and rolls his eyes.

          “Yeah. Sore subject and all. Shit, sorry, just sit down and finish this.”

          Sherlock sits but does not relax. He rewrites the part Sebastian pointed out, slowly, as legibly as he can manage. He breaks the silence, compelled by something he can’t name just yet. “Not my bloke.”

          Sebastian’s eyebrow twitches up. “My mistake.”

          “John and I… it’s not that different from you and Moriarty. Colleagues, that’s all.”

          “You’re a shit excuse for a genius, you know that? He loves you. Plain as the nose on his face – which is to say, really fucking plain,” and there’s a venom in the words that Sherlock doesn’t understand.

          “Nonsense. John isn’t… interested. In me. That way, I mean.” Sherlock hates the way his voice trembles, the starts and stops of the sentence. Because the idea of John loving him back bubbles inside him, and everything’s gone a bit quieter outside his head.

          Sebastian’s voice goes soft. “You’re wrong a lot, did you know?”

          “What makes you think you know anything about this?”

          “Like you said. Not so different from me and Jim. Not so different at all.”

          Sherlock rolls that around in his mind. He does see the parallels, has seen them before. “So you think you’re, what? The Anti-John?”

          “Wouldn’t say that, quite. But look at it. Sidekick, wasn’t I? Loved him, too, like the good doctor loves you.”

          “You _loved_ him?”

          “That’s what I fucking said.”

           “He surely didn’t give himself up to anything as base as love.”

          Like so many things Sherlock says, it comes out crueler than he ever meant it. Sebastian is quiet for a few beats but shrugs. “Love, no. Guess he never really did. Least not for me.”

          “Not for anyone, if I had to guess. Love isn’t really something psychopaths _do_.”

          Sebastian gathers the papers, yanks the pen from Sherlock’s fingers. “I got work to do.”

          The slam of the door sticks in Sherlock’s ears for hours.

 

          He doesn’t sleep, can’t sleep, but Sebastian still slides a needle into him the next time he appears. “I don’t need that, I’m perfectly—“ but his voice fails when he sees Sebastian’s shuttered features.

          Sebastian crouches in front of the bed, hands on Sherlock’s knees. “There was a job in Croatia. Guy named Kovazk. Did good work, pulled a vanishing act on us after it. I need him back.” He half-tosses a laptop at Sherlock. “Don’t fucking try anything with me, Holmes. Just find him.”

          Sebastian sits, eyes on the screen, while Sherlock shifts through documents about the job, passports, credit card bills, looking for a pattern which is –

          “Right in front of your face, honestly, you don’t really expect you’ll be able to keep up his work if you’re _this_ —“

          The smack of Sebastian’s fist against his shoulder blade is louder than the slamming door. Sherlock’s arm goes numb and he tenses against another blow, which doesn’t come.

          “You’re a prick,” and his tone is almost conversational but Sherlock’s getting a different story from the force behind the punch, his heavy breathing.

          “Sebastian. I’m sorry. I – I’m used to just – “

          “Being a prick, I know. Wonder if Watson isn’t glad to be rid of you.”

          Sherlock’s on his feet without considering, the laptop crashing to the floor. He meets Sebastian’s glare, which is blazing. “Don’t. Don’t bring John into—“

          “John,” Sebastian scoffs. “What the hell is it with this bloke? Thinks he’s a god damn hero, he’s just an ordinary queen and country, washed up, and you jump to his defense – you jump _off buildings_ for him – like you love him, but you can’t. You, and him, you don’t—“

          “You’re a bigger idiot than I thought, Moran. There is nothing about John that is useless or ordinary. And I do – I do,” but he can’t finish the sentence, can’t say those words here, to Sebastian, when he’s never gotten to say them to John, the one who deserves to hear them. His brain is thrumming with the idea of John, what Sebastian said earlier – that John would have him, and he knows that he would absolutely give himself up to John. Not a psychopath, and he could stop being bored, if he tried, and for John he would try, he would absolutely die trying—

          He’s jolted from these thoughts by Sebastian’s chair, crashing to the ground as he stands, jaw working, face pinched like with a bitter taste. He sees, and he knows. Moriarty didn’t love, but Sebastian did. Sherlock does. He still can. He knows John is out there, knows he can go home, even if it’s all wrong, even if John would never love him, he would be there, solid and staid and John, he could be near John, hear John's fingers tapping at the keyboard, stand in the bathroom and smell John’s shampoo and run his fingers through droplets of water from John’s shower. Could hold out a hand for something that John would give. And what if – what if.

          Sherlock sees it, of course he does. Even if he’d once had them, Sebastian will never have those things again. Sebastian, who is hunched over with his fists planted on the table, pulling deep breaths through his nose, pushing them out between his teeth. Sherlock knows he can’t speak for the knowledge that it will absolutely come out a howl. Sherlock sees that Sebastian has lost something that Sherlock has only ever dreamed at. The very idea. To have had John, and lose him, to be left behind. 

Sherlock is suddenly terrified that this is how John’s pain looks. John, who watched him fall from the top of St. Bart’s – _the first time we met_ , and the memory of the desperation in John’s voice clenches Sherlock’s stomach the same every time – John, who must think himself responsible in some way, not because he is (oh, John, never) but because he is John, and if he loved Sherlock he surely thinks he could have saved him. Sherlock fell off a building, and Moriarty put a bullet in his brain, despite the love of the man shaking, swallowing things Sherlock cannot imagine, only inches away. He’s overcome with the need to place his hand on Sebastian’s back, between the shoulder blades, and doesn’t question it, leaves it there, presses against the hard muscles of Sebastian’s back. Sebastian stays tense under his hand for several minutes but Sherlock doesn’t move away, closes his eyes and tries to think, but Sebastian is warm and faintly trembling and Sherlock can fix this, he can.

          “It wasn’t personal. You have to know that, if you understood him at all. And you did understand him, Sebastian.”

          “He left. He left me here, alone. How is that not personal?”

          “He didn’t have a choice,” Sherlock answers, finally, and knows it was true for him, so it must have been true for Moriarty. He’d leave John alone a thousand times as long as it meant John was safe, and alive. Because John will be fine, John will move on, John who is loveable and warm, John who is solid beneath his frumpy clothes but soft around the middle soft enough that Sherlock could lay his head there if he got the chance, John whose giggle is a gaseous element. John who is alone because of Sherlock. These thoughts send something unidentifiable through Sherlock’s blood, and he gasps in a breath. He slides his hand from Sebastian’s back and steps away, heart pounding.

          Sebastian turns, catches Sherlock’s hand in his own. He shakes it off by instinct, but he sees the way Sebastian’s face, which was momentarily open, slams shut again. John is alone, and he can’t stop himself from taking the short step to Sebastian, sees himself moving without thinking or meaning to. He is sliding his hands around Sebastian’s back, pushing him against the table, and Sebastian’s mouth is right there, he’s too tall, Sherlock doesn’t have to bend at all, and the lips under his are too full, and none of it is right but he can’t stop it. Sebastian has hitched a hip on the edge of the table and worked his leg around Sherlock’s calf. Sherlock is aware of everything, each hair standing up on his own arms, the pressure of Sebastian’s foot on his ankle, his own pounding blood. Sherlock is dimly aware that they are still kissing, that Sebastian is shifting beneath him, gripping his hips and pulling him closer. Sherlock feels this, and vaguely wants to push forward for more friction, but he is also feeling the cheap cotton of Sebastian’s t-shirt under his fingers, and the hot breath on his philtrum, and the sweat gathering in the small of his back, and how he wants to break away, but Sebastian is drawing in huge, shuddering breaths and his eyelashes are fluttering, and Sherlock is stroking him like a tender, broken thing, a thing he has to make right. 

          Sebastian’s voice surprises him, low in his ear. “What now, boss?”

          Sherlock is suddenly concerned for the health of his heart, he cannot swallow and the pressure in his chest is unbelievable and his pulse is racing and he is aware of everything and nothing. He’s pulling away from Sebastian, gripping his biceps and flipping him around, pressing his chest against Sebastian’s back, and he’s hard – when did that happen, that doesn’t usually happen – and he wraps his arms around Sebastian’s chest, a palm flat against the hammering of his heart, and he has to be capable of this thing, of proving he’s not a machine, that he wants, that he loves. Things are fuzzy and dark around the edges of his vision, and Sebastian leans up to pull his t-shirt over his head, twists to undo the drawstring of Sherlock’s bottoms, and he cannot feel Sebastian’s fingers around him, can only hear his own heart and raspy breaths, and when Sebastian drops to his knees, Sherlock can only be grateful that he cannot feel it, because it’s wrong. He drags Sebastian up, grips his elbows, hard, and is shocked at the thrill that goes through him when fear flickers over Sebastian’s features. He’s shocked at his own hand, reaching between them and pushing Sebastian’s trousers down, shocking at his own body pushing against Sebastian’s, his fingers pushing into Sebastian’s mouth and spreading the wetness onto them, Sebastian’s fingers joining his own, and the dimness burns away and everything is too bright and loud and close and sticky and not John, and Sherlock drops his forehead against Sebastian’s, feels the sweat there and tastes it on his upper lip and Sebastian’s breath is shoving out in tiny puffs, and he’s squeezing his eyes shut and Sherlock tightens their hands, presses his lips against Sebastian’s collarbones, breathes a sigh of relief when he feels Sebastian spill onto him, and Sebastian is shaking and wrapping his arms around Sherlock, his legs, and Sherlock removes his hand from them and pushes his sticky fingers into Sebastian’s hair, strokes a finger down his nose, and covers his weak cries with his mouth, swallows them and lets Sebastian’s fingers finish him, but he doesn’t have much to give and it doesn’t feel like anything. Sebastian takes Sherlock’s face in his shaking hands and kisses his cheek, licks the sweat from his temples, and lets him whisper _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_.

 

          Sherlock opens his eyes with no recollection of falling asleep, or even lying down. He’s clean and dressed and his back aches and his head feels heavy and –

He swings his feet to the floor and sits, too abruptly, his head rushes and he sways. Sebastian’s hand reaches up from the bed behind him and grips his upper arm, braces him upright.

          “Morning, sunshine.”

          It rushes back to Sherlock and he feels nauseous – he shouldn’t have – _why_ did he –

          Sherlock scrambles off the bed, desperate to get as much space between himself and Sebastian as he can. Sebastian pushes up onto one elbow.

          “Oh, Christ. Should've known you couldn't be an adult about this." 

          Sherlock swallows against the bile in his throat. “Why would you… why?”

          Sebastian unfolds himself from the bed and crosses the room to where Sherlock leans against the wall. His movements are slow, lithe, and Sherlock’s eyes can’t help but follow the jut of his hip bones appreciatively.

          “Because. Your brother said I could do whatever I wanted with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to J (boxoftheskyking)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Jane find out the truth behind Sherlock's whereabouts.

          “You need to explain this to me right now.”

          “John, please settle down. I assure you, Sherlock is safe.”

          “You’ve left him trapped with a psychopath who holds him responsible for his friend’s death. In what way exactly is that safe?”

          “Mr. Moran and I have an understanding.”

          John bites back his first six questions and just sighs. “You sold out your brother. Of course you did. Not the first time, is it?”

          “I have not sold out my brother, John. He is not in any danger. I think he’s even enjoying himself.”

          This is met with silence. Jane has not stirred, and John does not miss the way Mycroft’s eyes continually flick over to the chair where she is slumped.

          “Probably should have had your men use a little less on her.”

          “I’m aware, thank you.”

          “You’re not going to let me go, are you?”

          Mycroft, predictably, doesn’t answer, and leaves the room without another word.

 

          John rolls his shoulders against the ache that’s settled in from having his wrists bound behind him. His ankles are tethered to each other but also to the chair, which is easy enough. He manages to rock the chair legs up enough to slip the ropes off the chair legs, one foot planted enough to stop the whole chair tipping. He can stand, now, which is a relief to the growing cramps in his legs. He shuffles to Jane. Unable to use his hands, he settles for leaning his face against hers and is immeasurably relieved to feel her breath against his cheek. She’s small, and drugs metabolize differently in men and women, but she’s been passed out too long for it to be just the drugs.

          John went down first; he didn’t see them get her. They were over the wall and into the first building on the grounds when he heard boots, not making any attempt at stealth, and he had barely focused on the man running towards him when he felt a presence behind him, registered the needle sinking into the muscle where neck meets shoulder. He recalls sinking to his knees, trying to shout out for Jane, barely able to move his lips, and he isn’t sure if any sound came out. He thinks, Sherlock, and wants to fight, but it goes dark.

          Now, he uses his elbow as gently as possible to push aside Jane’s hair, which has been concealing a trickle of blood from her temple. John’s skin goes hot, then cold, and he cannot kneel, bound as he is. He presses his lips to her forehead, says her name as loudly as he dares. She does not stir, though her eyelids flutter and her breath is steady. The blood has congealed, her wound is clotted, and there’s nothing to be done but wait.

          Wait, with his heart pounding for the knowledge that Mycroft’s men hurt her, that Sherlock is so near him, possibly in this building, and that he cannot reach him. That Mycroft betrayed him, betrayed Jane, betrayed Sherlock – not surprising, in the end, but no less upsetting for that.

          _I think he’s even enjoying himself_ \-- well he would be, wouldn’t he? John swallows hard against everything rising in his throat. Things he could not name, even if he the time to try, the luxury of self-examination. He needs to stay awake until Jane rejoins him, and then they need to get out. They need to get Sherlock, and then – and then? Maybe it’s because of the drugs lingering in his system, but everything feels surreal, like he might wake up at any moment, alone in the flat, heart racing, crying out to no one. He has barely gotten a handle on the fact that he’s alive – Sherlock’s alive – from the moment he held Jane’s phone and saw Sherlock’s face, heard her words, and felt it in his gut – that Sherlock had done it, given him his miracle — _don’t be dead… stop this_. Every door they knocked on, every hour that passed, had been carrying him closer to Sherlock and now he was right here, he could be in the next bloody room for Christ’s sake – and John is, once again, unable to help him.

          As his mind runs circles and his stomach turns somersaults, John lets himself be pulled under the gentle tide of sleep.

 

          He wakes to Jane whispering his name. She is blinking rapidly, tossing her head as if to get her thoughts into one place. He awkwardly stands and once again shuffles over to her, feeling the knots around his ankles tighten with the motion. His feet are nearly numb already. She focuses on him and sighs. “You all right then?”

          “Yeah. Same question.”

          “Bastard kneed me in the head when I was down.”

          “It’s Mycroft. All of this, Mycroft. He’s letting Moran hold Sherlock –“

          Jane’s reaction is immediate, visceral. She begins to roll her shoulders, rubbing her wrists against one another to slide the rope downwards. “Fuck. We have to get out of here, John.”

          “What?” Her sudden urgency is unsettling.

          “We can’t let Moran keep him – shit, Mycroft will move them – he’ll have started moving them as soon as we showed up – _fuck_!” Her head falls forward as she continues to fight against her bonds.

          “All right, Jane, we’ll work it out, just hold on.” John continues his shuffle and drops to his knees, gritting his teeth at the crunch of bone against the concrete floor. “Too god damn old for this,” he grumbles. “See if you can turn around a little.” She leans forward as far as she can. He can’t work his head between her back and the chair, so she lets herself fall face-forward, John’s thigh catching her across the chest. He works at her ties with his teeth, grateful that the rope is nylon, and thin enough to get a good grip. He loosens it enough that she can wriggle it off, and almost groans in relief when she works his off and he can bring his hands forward. The stiffness in his shoulder travels down his entire arm and he hisses as he twists it. Jane has undone her feet, and starts on his, looking up at the grimace of pain on John’s face. She stands and lays a flat hand on each side of his shoulder, pushing just slightly enough for her body heat to seep into the stiff joint. An unbidden moan falls from his lips and his head falls back.

          He catches Jane’s eye and straightens up, embarrassed somehow by this, the show of his age, his injury. She smiles and slides her hands from his shoulder, shaking her head slightly as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking and finds it foolish. But she is no less focused on the matter at hand. “We have to get out of here, John. He’s had a head start already. He’s moving them or he’s making plans for us, and we can’t have either.” The urgency in her voice tugs open a knot of anxiety in his chest, that Sherlock is slipping away from him again. “How do you suggest we get out?”

          “The lock should be simple enough. And then—“

          “Then if we run across anyone, we hurt them.” 

          Jane’s grin is enough of an answer. She kneels beside the door, peers at the lock. “This room’s clearly not designed to hold people with any motivation of getting out. It’s just a pin tumbler lock!” She fishes in her pocket and retrieves a bobby pin. “They didn’t even search us…” she goes still, pin half-straightened in her hand.

          “Too easy?”

          “Too easy.”

          Silence stretches between them, each lost in their own thoughts for several minutes until Jane shrugs. “Nothing else for it though, eh?”

          John reaches a hand out and gently takes her fingers in his own. She starts as he reaches his other hand for her head, tracing the wound there. “Why are you doing this, Jane? You don’t know who’s out there, or what they’ll do to stop us.”

          “You don’t know, either. But you’re going.”

          “Yes, because it’s Sherlock. It’s Sherlock and I… I have to.”

          “He hired me to help him. To keep him safe. I’ve not done that. So I’ve got to do it, too.”

          John just looks at her, blinking slowly.

          “What does it matter? Unless you’re asking why you should trust me, in which case I should stove your fucking head in.”

          “I’m not asking that. I’m just trying to understand why you’re willing to put your life on the line for a man you barely know. Who, knowing him as I do, probably didn’t do too much to endear himself to you. I just don’t get it.”

          “And I’m saying my motives are irrelevant. Our mission is the same. Get Sherlock out of here safely. I’m going to do that, John, and why shouldn’t matter.”

          “We don’t have a _mission_ , Jane. Neither of us live that life anymore. We make choices and we have goals, but we don’t have orders to follow.”

          “What is your point, John?”

          “I don’t want you throwing your life away just because you can’t think of any good reason not to.”

          She looks surprised for a beat, then laughs, a small and bitter thing. Shaking her head, “That’s the only reason I do anything, these days. You might not like my motivation, John, but you need my help either way.” She pulls her hand out of his, lifting one side of her mouth in an abortive attempt at a smile. An apology, maybe. John can’t examine it any closer before she’s back at the lock, snapping her pin in two, ear flat against the door. They hear the click of the lock seconds before the door swings open, Jane barely scrabbling backward in time to avoid falling. She goes white at the sight of the man standing there, a sardonic grin twisting his face.

          “Very good, Siobhan.” His grin splits wider at her sharp inhale. “Yes, of course, it’s Jane now. Very good, Jane.”

          “Sebastian,” she breathes, and John can barely process how quickly the man moves, landing a glancing kick to her jaw, leaning his boot on her windpipe, looming over where she’d fallen, where John is still crouched, one hand stretched absurdly in front of him. He can see Jane’s chest rising and falling, shallow breaths, Moran not exerting any pressure on her throat.

          Moran turns his eyes to John, the look on his face unreadable before it slides into blankness. “Well. Dr. Watson and ‘Jane Turner,’” and it strikes John that he was wrong, that there is more to this for Jane than following orders, because Moran says this name and knows another, a name John doesn’t know, a history he was unaware of, one that has Jane on her back with a man’s foot jammed beneath her chin. “A motley little rescue party this is, then.”

          John springs to his feet, rushes Moran, barrels into him with his full weight, shoulder to solar plexus, knocks him away from Jane, out of the door, their momentum arrested by brick wall. John’s heart is pounding wildly, adrenaline making him strong, quick, but fear and desperation make him clumsy. Moran has him by the throat in seconds, gripping tight enough that stars of pain are sparking behind his eyelids. Moran releases him just as he truly begins to struggle for air, and he keeps his feet, but barely.

          “Dr. Watson. I haven’t got time for you just yet. And Jane, I really wouldn’t.” She freezes, halfway out the door on hands and knees. He’s drawn a gun from his waistband, holds it loosely at his side, its presence threatening enough. “I’ve got business to finish up with Mr. Holmes, and I can see to you two.”

          Sherlock’s name has John fighting again, hands fisting in Moran’s shirt and dragging him down. Moran wrenches himself free, heaves a sigh of irritation before bringing the butt of his gun down on John’s temple. John crumples, manages to curl up to protect himself as Moran aims a kick at his stomach. “I was trying to make this easy on you. Honestly.” He tucks his gun back, grabs John by the collar, Jane by a hank of hair. He drags them back into the room as easily as if they were sacks of flour, and Jane landing a bite on his wrist only earns them a chuckle. “You’re not bad fighters, after all. I’m just better.” He tightens his hand in Jane’s hair, yanks her head back. “Siobhan. Don’t make this difficult for yourself.” Her eyes flutter closed, and the acquiescence suddenly written all over her features frightens John, spurs him to reach behind his head, pushing against the knuckles of Moran’s fist, forcing him to release John’s collar. He spins, elbow to Moran’s shoulder, and manages to knock him off-center. They continue a push and pull, John’s movements getting surer as he assesses Moran’s strengths. He lands a few decent blows before Moran suddenly tenses at footsteps in the corridor.

          “Enough of this, Mr. Moran.” Mycroft steps into the room. Moran recovers from the interruption quicker than John, takes advantage of the time to hook John’s arms behind his back.

          “I’m not having fun with ‘em, I’m keeping ‘em in line. They were picking the lock. If you don’t want me down here dealing with it, get them the fuck outta here.”

          “That was precisely my intention, Mr. Moran.” Mycroft gestures into the hallway and two men enter, likely two of the same ones as earlier. Moran still has John’s arms twisted behind him. Jane pushes herself to her feet and backs up as far as she can, but the room is small and they are outnumbered. Doesn’t stop them putting up a hell of a fight, but in the end they wind up how they started, hands and feet bound. They are battered and bleeding, and John almost welcomes the slide of a needle into his skin, the enveloping numbness, until he sees Mycroft gesture again, and the man slides hands beneath John’s arms and hauls him up. “Get them into the van.” Darkness is creeping into his vision from the edges and his head swims, pounds with one thought: if he leaves this place, he will never find Sherlock again.

          “No, no, Mycroft, no! I have to… Sherlock! SHERLOCK!” it’s the only word he has left, and he lets it rip from his lungs as he’s dragged down a corridor, Jane in a similar position behind him, silent – possibly already unconscious, John knows he doesn’t have long until the sedative takes control, but he’s so close, he’s this goddamn close – “Don’t do this, Mycroft, god damn it! Just let me –“ he is breathing in huge gasps now, sucking oxygen and fighting with everything in him to push back the fuzziness, the encroaching darkness of sedation. “Just let me see him, please.” John does not hear Mycroft’s response, but the man holding him stops. John’s heart leaps that Mycroft has listened, and he stays extremely still as he feels the ropes on his feet loosen. His captor still has him firmly by the arm, but he walks under his own authority, several steps back and down another corridor, to a control room of sorts. His eyes scan the screens greedily until he finds what he is looking for – a display reflecting a room much larger than the one he and Jane were in. A table, strewn with documents, connected by strings, arranged in such a Sherlock way that John’s stomach flips at the sight of it. And a bed with – John’s heart stutters.

          Sherlock. Paler than John’s ever seen him, too thin, far too thin – shirtless, unrestrained but with bruises on his ribs and there’s a panic rising in John’s throat as he sees Sebastian Moran, entering the room and sitting on the low mattress beside Sherlock, who moves aside obligingly – no-what- _Sherlock_. Moran strokes down Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock does not move, does not fight, not moving not fighting as Moran trails fingers across his cheekbones, down his chest, and John is coughing on bile, spitting it on the screen, acrid and black, and he collapses, knees and then elbows cracking the edge of the desk, his captor barely managing to stop him hitting his head. The sedative has taken him, or the shock, and they lift him carefully and head back the way they came, bundling him into the rear of the van beside Jane’s unconscious body. Mycroft remains behind, staring at his brother who is shivering beneath Moran’s hands, hands which are pushing into bruises and asking questions – Mycroft has to look away. He reminds himself sternly that the questions must be asked. This is necessary. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane gets to the bottom of Mycroft's plans for Sherlock.

          John is vaguely aware that he is awake, but he makes no attempts to move or open his eyes. They feel as if they are glued shut, anyway, and since he has absolutely no idea where he is, pretending to be asleep a bit longer is a tactical advantage. He remembers the warehouse, remembers Sherlock flickering on the screen, Sherlock with Sebastian – his stomach lurches and he tries to backpedal, to shut off the sudden rush of fear, and confusion, and anger. He takes deep, shallow breaths and focuses on anything he can hear, or sense, or smell. He is on a bed, a comfortable one, and it smells – familiar, it somehow smells like home, and he hears what is very likely someone making tea. Making tea for a prisoner, how very –

          “John, dear, are you awake?” He snaps his eyes open, ripping his eyelashes through dried mucus and salt – tears and sweat. “Mrs – Mrs. Hudson? What…” He pushes himself up onto his elbows and, yes, it’s Mrs. Hudson, in the door of the bedroom – Sherlock’s bedroom, he is in Sherlock’s bed, and it smelled familiar, it smelled like home – He does not realize he is crying until Mrs. Hudson sets his mug on the bedside table and sits beside him, pulling him into a hug.

          “There, now, John, it’s all right. They told me you might be a bit confused, but you’re safe now, you’re home,” and she rubs his back as he fights for control, for understanding.

          “Jane, I was with --  I was with a woman, Mrs. Hudson, do you know where--"

          "Yes, she's upstairs, still resting I hope. She was awake for a bit earlier, very distraught. I don't know what happened to you two, love, but you both could use more rest. Drink your tea," and she pats him again, hands him the cup, and leaves the door cracked open as she exits. He takes a sip of tea, out of politeness or habit or god only knows what, before he bolts out of bed and upstairs to his room.

          He pushes the door open to see Jane leap out of bed, then finds he's looking down the barrel of his own gun. Jane sighs and lowers it. "Sorry," she shrugs, and he shrugs back, sits at the foot of the bed. She sits, too, scrubbing a hand through her hair, still clutching the gun. "So. This is the infamous 221B."

          "Is it infamous?"

          "Sherlock talked about it a lot. More than he realized, I think. He missed it."

          John swallows hard, against all the things he is not dealing with yet. "Shouldn't have left, then, should he?"

          "You miss it, too. But you left. Because you had to."

          John holds up a hand and shakes his head. "Just. Don't. Sherlock and me, that's not – it's not on the table, right now. How the hell did we even turn up here?"

          "Mycroft."

          "Yeah, I figured that much. But why here, why not take us somewhere we can't get out? He must know I'm heading right back."

          "That's going to prove difficult. I haven't been able to confirm but I'm sure by now he has us on watch lists, he'll have alerted the CAA, Department of Transport, police both here and in Russia – we're not going anywhere."

          "We're not going anywhere as ourselves, but—"

          "Mycroft is the one who gave us the fake papers, John, surely you realize he'll shut those down as well?"

          "There's got to be a way, Jane, come on, I'm not just giving up –"

          "I'm not giving up either, John, but we can't storm in there half-cocked again, it didn't work so good last time, you know?"

          Whether she means it as an accusation or not is irrelevant – it was John's overriding need to run to Sherlock's aid that got them where they are now, and he knows it. He drops his face into his hands and tries to think.

          Jane lets out a slow breath. "Sherlock is there because Mycroft did a deal with Seb – with Moran. So Sherlock is probably safe."

          "He's being held prisoner. Maybe he's not going to end up dead but he's not _safe_." John squeezes his eyes shut and tries to suppress the shudder that comes over him at the image of Moran's hands on Sherlock's skin.

          Jane presses closer, covers John's hand with her own. "What did you see?"

          He heaves a breath. "We've got to get him out, Jane."

          They are silent for several minutes, a fragile plan taking hold in Jane's mind. She squeezes John's hand and he opens his eyes to meet hers. "I've got to see Mycroft."

 

-

 

          It's too much to hope that he isn't expecting her, because of course he is. And that he doesn’t know exactly what she wants, because of course he does. She holds the inside of her cheek firmly in her teeth as his assistant shows her into the office and leaves. Jane sits as calmly as she can manage and waits. She'd shrugged off John's concerns about coming up with a plan before coming here, and she can admit to herself that she probably should have listened to him and thought this through a bit. All she has right now is, "Please let Sherlock go—" and something tells her that isn't quite enough. When Mycroft enters the room, reading a file, and seats himself behind his desk, she feels it open to her—he is protecting himself from her, putting barriers between them. He knows he has acted shamefully – maybe he even feels actual shame, though she doesn't hold out hope. She could attack him, and blame him, and watch him retreat. Or she could coax him out. So she speaks gently, lets her nerves show, tilts her head down.

          "Mycroft. I wish you had trusted me with this from the beginning. I could have helped."

          He looks at her with some surprise. "Surely you would not have consented to assist Mr. Moran."

          She gives him a small smile. "No, probably not, but I would've kept Watson out of it. Always, always Mycroft, making the same mistakes. Mistakes that cost us big."

          "Oh yes? Would you care to enlighten me with regard to these mistakes?"

          There is something tremulous enough in his voice that she can stand, can walk behind the desk, lean against it, the edge meeting the top of her thighs. Although he is seated, she maintains only a slight height advantage. She looks down at him, and recalls a fondness she used to have – allows it to seep into her features and warm her voice. "You think you have to bear these things alone, Mycroft. You don't. Always holding back a part of the plan, never trusting anyone fully – not even me. Not even then."

          "I've always trusted you more than anyone, Jane. But this is not personal. It never has been."

          "I know you're a professional, Mycroft, and god knows you're a hundred times better at this than anyone. But this is Sherlock. This is your brother. How do you keep that from being personal?"

          "The benefit of the information we stand to gain far outweighs any collateral damages. My brother will not be harmed in any lasting way. He is merely being inconvenienced."

          "Inconvenienced?" she scoffs. "Mycroft. This is Sebastian Moran. This is the man who killed half our task force—"

          "You cannot imagine that I have forgotten these things. Why, then, should you persist in reminding me?"

          She lifts her hands in surrender. "I'm not picking a fight with you. I just don't understand this. I know the information is important, if you say it is, I believe that. But these lengths? Putting Sherlock through this—"

          "Sherlock chose to hunt down Moran. I did not make these choices for my brother. He behaved recklessly and was captured by Moran before I was aware of his actions. I merely sought to make an unfavorable situation profitable."

          "Rather than simply negotiating for Sherlock's release?"

          "He wanted to be there. He wanted to get caught by Moran. I do trust his judgment in some areas, and if he believed it was useful, then so do I."

          "And now? I don't know what's happening back there, but John saw – something, something that makes him sick and scared. Is it possible, Mycroft, that this has escaped your control… just somewhat?"

          He draws a slow breath through his nose. "I have an extraction date, Jane. I have eyes on the situation. Sherlock has suffered minor physical wounds, but has otherwise been enthusiastic to carry on the work Moran has presented him."

          "That work being?"

          "Moriarty. Every known associate, every identity, every bank account, every business and land holding. It's all in Moran's head, and if not there, in Moriarty's files – which only Moran can decipher reliably. Moran has never shown a disposition that I imagine would respond to duress. I thought it best to provide him instead with motivation."

          "He hands everything over in exchange for what? A few weeks of slapping Sherlock around? That doesn't seem like a fair trade, for him. Though I guess slapping Sherlock around a bit is motivation for a lot of things." She laughs, and after a slight pause, Mycroft laughs too. She lets it in, knowing it to be a rare thing, and her affection is not entirely false as she hesitantly brushes her fingers over his lapels. "Come on, Mycroft, I know this guy. A bit too well for my tastes, but it would be much worse if you hadn't –" she takes a breath, lets her exhale wobble. "You saved my life. From the very same man. I don't believe you would let your brother be harmed. But I don't trust him, and I don't understand why he'd agree to this."

          "Well, Mr. Moran is under the impression that he is receiving a bit more than that."

          "Mycroft."

          "There is no cause for concern, Jane. He will not get the chance to fulfill his plans."

          "You think he fell for that? You're good, I'm never gonna deny that. But he can't be played that easy, boss, he's gonna do it before you can stop him, are you out of your mind? Only, no way did Moran buy you agreeing to let him kill your little brother! "

          Mycroft's brow has furrowed as she spoke, and smoothes out at her final words. "Jane, I would never agree to let Sherlock be killed, even hypothetically. Had I known he planned to do this I would have stopped him ever meeting Moriarty that day – he can withstand and will subject himself to any amount of danger, and some of it is unavoidable. But I would not allow anyone to permanently damage him."

          "Then what—"

          "Sometime during the initial days of my brother's captivity, before I was able to contact him, Mr. Moran's thirst for answers, or perhaps more accurately, for revenge, shifted away from my brother."

          Jane is aware that her posture has gone rigid, that the ease and warmth she was attempting to portray have fled. "Shifted away from your brother. And landed on who?"

          "Why do you think I worked so diligiently to keep you and Doctor Watson away from Mr. Moran?"

          "You agreed to give him John?"

          "It was the only demand he made. Of course I agreed. But I have no intention of allowing any harm to befall him."

          "How do you propose—"

          "I will not continue to be questioned on this topic. My decisions have been sound. This was necessary. And if Doctor Watson remains precisely where I placed him, in the flat at Baker Street, which I have endeavored to make the safest place in London, he shall be unharmed. Perhaps you should see to it, Jane. At any rate, you must go. I've no more time to humor your attempts to interrogate me." Mycroft stands, looming over her.

          "You bought _right into_ my 'attempts' to interrogate you. I walked in here knowing nothing and I'm leaving knowing all of it. I'll keep John safe. But you've got to get Sherlock back."

          "As I am certain I mentioned, I have an extraction date."

          "Fuck your extraction date, Mycroft. Get him out of there. Bring him home to John."

          "Oh, Jane. You've always been so sentimental. It's a ridiculous weakness."

          She meets his eyes solidly. "And one I proudly bear if it means I'll never be like you."

          "Ah, but as you'll recall, I've been prone to such weakness myself. I did… care for you, Jane. There were choices I made, actions that were not… practical."

          "And the world kept turning. So do it just one more time, Mycroft. Bring your brother home. I have been nothing but amazed and impressed by Sherlock Holmes, but even so, I think you overestimate him. You're basing his ability to survive Sebastian Moran on a faulty assumption."

          "What's that?"

          "That he is like you. And he is not."

          Mycroft swallows audibly, considering this. "Perhaps," he allows. "But it must be done carefully."

          "Because after Moran hands over the information, you're supposed to hand over John?"

          "To put it quite crudely, yes."

          "And then, what? Moran walks?"

          "Yes. However, if all goes according to plan, not very far."

          "I'd say I don't know how you'll manage it. But I've seen you do loads of impossible things."

          "Our chances are favorable, but he is a very dangerous man."

          Jane smiles, an involuntary and unencumbered thing. "Oh, Mycroft. So are you."


	18. Chapter 18

          It is infuriating to try to track the progress of time in this place. There is no natural light, no clock, nothing but his circadian rhythms to track the time, and those hopelessly confused. Sebastian hasn't been back in what feels like a long time. Since he's left, Sherlock has turned a baffling portfolio of documents into a cohesive record, a spreadsheet with labels and colors, perfectly designed for the way Sebastian processes information. He's not been back since he left the project. Sherlock hadn't wanted to take it, had tried to roll away from where Sebastian sat, had accepted the deep, steady pain of Sebastian pressing against his bruised torso. He did occasionally resist, and Sebastian was quietly and thoroughly capable of providing incentive.

          He'd done the work eventually, of course he had. There was simply nothing else to do in the stretches between Sebastian. Sherlock was finding Sebastian's moods entirely indecipherable. Neither of them had mentioned their intimate encounter again, nor pushed for a second occurrence. His last appearance had been brief and suffused with quiet rage, and he had marks on his skin and his clothing that indicated a struggle, and he smelled of something which prickled Sherlock's skin, a scent he recognized but could not place. Sherlock had buried his face in the bit of blanket that Sebastian had touched, trying to parse the data left behind, but it was fleeting and he could not determine what he had smelled.

          With the work finished, he began to think again of the question of his future. He ran his fingers over the laptop. It was useless in terms of aiding his escape, as any link to the outside had been firmly disconnected, and he had spent too long attempting it already. He evaluated its usefulness as a weapon and concluded it would be sturdy enough to inflict several significant blows to Sebastian's head. And then there was the power cord, certainly long and strong enough to strangle, at least to the point of unconsciousness, if not fully to death (though it was possible, if he had the strength – doubtful, with the little he had to eat and drink and a dearth of physical exercise). The difficulty was that he couldn't attack without knowing the door code. From the movement of Sebastian's fingers and the varying cadence of the beeps he was aware it frequently changed. Making an attempt at guessing was too risky – his odds of guessing it correctly weighed against the odds of a system lockdown. If Sebastian were dead inside the room with him, he could not chance it. There was no one else on the outside; no one else would ever come for him. He would have to wait until Sebastian had opened the door, and he would attack then – but he couldn't reach the door, the chain too short, and the lock impossible to pick, at least without tools. He needed it off.  

          He stared at his bonds, evaluating. Escaping from an ankle cuff much more difficult than hand – hand, he could simply break his thumb and slide out. And the cuff was not a thin band of metal but a shackle, several inches in width, with very little give. Sherlock grasped the pencil Sebastian had provided him, short, dull, insufficient as a stabbing weapon. He snapped it near the top, trusting the wood to splinter, and began to work the jagged piece just beneath the top of the cuff, enough to raise welts though not draw blood. Repeated the process at the bottom of the cuff, stashed the pencil pieces beneath the mattress. It burned slightly, and if Sebastian did not come soon he may have to recreate the injuries. Sherlock sighed, frustrated. Always so much left to chance these days.

 

          He gets lucky, he only has to lightly scratch the welts once more before he hears Sebastian keying his way into the room. Sherlock's eyes fly over him for information, he is slumping – tired worried frustrated – borne out by dark circles, marks on lips where he's chewed them, pulled at hair – thinking through a difficult situation, unable to sleep –

          Sherlock's deductions are cut short by Sebastian's hand cupping his chin, tilting his head back. "Quit doing that. You wanna know something, ask me."

          Sherlock shrugs. "I don’t actually do it on purpose, you know. It's automatic. And I've been cooped up in here for ages, I'm starved." He shifts his legs, purposefully drawing Sebastian's attention to his foot.

          "Oh, hell, what's wrong with you?" The skin peeking out of the cuff is red and raw.

          "It's been itching." He pauses a moment. "Burning, too."

          "Chafed, most like. Can't be helped."

          "Come on, you can't expect me to work when my foot's falling off!"

          Sebastian raises his eyebrow at the whining tone of Sherlock's voice. "Best I can do is switch it to the other foot."

          Sherlock curses internally but forces a grateful smile as Sebastian pulls his keys from his pocket and removes the cuff. He latches it immediately to the left ankle. Sherlock glares at it. In truth it had been a very thin plan, but he still finds this development disappointing.

          "Do you have new work for me?" he asks finally, after Sebastian has picked up the laptop and moved away from him.

          "No. I've had word from your brother. I'm to let you go."

          Sherlock's heart begins to pound. "I'm sorry?" He had spoken so casually Sherlock is sure he's misheard.

          "You're going home. Tomorrow, in fact."

          Sherlock's mind is spinning faster than it has done in weeks. Part of him is clamoring for answers, while another part is simply burning with the idea of _home_. "Just like that?"

          "Well it's a bit sooner than I'd have liked. But we had an agreement."

          "Yes, you've mentioned that. Though you've neglected to mention the terms of this agreement."

          Sebastian gives him a look to indicate that he's not going to do so now, either. Sherlock thinks it over. Knowing Mycroft, it's all down to getting information. Mycroft will do anything for information, he's already proven this.

          "Don't tell me you're handing over all this work to him."

          Sebastian shrugs. "It's valuable. I don't need it, anyway, do I. I've not really got the head for running the business."

          "But I've – I've laid it all out, I've made it perfectly simple for you to follow."

          "What, you want me to continue the criminal enterprise you worked so hard to discover?"

          "To discover, yes. Not to stop."

          "You stopped us killing the hostages," Sebastian points out.

          A woman in a car park, a man in Trafalgar Square, an old woman who said too much, a child, John… God, it feels like years ago. "I was solving the puzzles. I didn't trace it any farther back, did I? Never went after Moriarty except when he dangled himself in front of me."

          "You'd let me go on killing people?"

          "If you could make it interesting."

          "You're lying."

          Sherlock shakes his head, gives one small, wry laugh. "You know, I might not be. It was exciting for a bit. Distracting."

          Sebastian is quiet for a long time, his attention on Sherlock's work. "This is good," he says finally, quietly. "Maybe I really could keep it up, with your help." The silence between them feels thicker, somehow, and Sherlock finds himself imagining it. In his heart he knows he does solve crimes for the puzzle, but he couldn't bring himself to go about it the other way. He wouldn't harm innocent people for no reason. Doesn't like to harm them in any event, but recognizes it's sometimes, regrettably, necessary. Besides, John would never allow it. He would be disappointed, which is an uncomfortable sensation for Sherlock, even when it is so frequently inevitable.

Sebastian finally speaks again. "I know you'd never do it. I'm not asking."

          "Why not?" despite the absurdity of it, he finds that he is offended.

          Sebastian does not answer, simply continues staring at the screen, though Sherlock suspects he is thinking of something else entirely. He waits as long as he can, new questions blooming in his mind each second. "So what do you get? In exchange for all the information you're simply giving up to the British government."

          Sebastian's eyes meet his, and he nearly recoils with how quickly the bland concentration has turned to an image of the Sebastian from weeks prior, the one made of blinding grief and furious hatred. "I get a score settled."

          Sherlock continues to ask questions, but Sebastian simply exits briefly, brings fresh water and crackers, some cheese. Sherlock falls silent. He is desperately hungry, and Sebastian has withheld provisions before out of irritation. When he has been silent for a sufficient amount of time, Sebastian places the tray on the edge of the table closest Sherlock. "Get some rest. Long day tomorrow." Sherlock looks up, though his fingers continue to deliver bits of cracker and cheese into his mouth, almost mindlessly. "You'll need to be on your very best behavior, Sherlock, do you understand me?" He suppresses a shiver at the threat in Sebastian's voice and nods. He does not fully understand this meek version of himself, and he loathes it, but he recognizes its prudence. He must hold his tongue for a bit longer, that's all, and he will be going home, where Mycroft will answer his questions. Home to London, to Baker Street, to John.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan to get Sherlock back gets underway.

          Jane hasn't visited a dentist in years, but she's reasonably sure she's ground her molars flat in the last two hours alone. She's worked in high pressure situations all over the world, made life or death decisions in split seconds, sometimes literally with a gun to her head. None of that prepared her for this day. To be precise, none of it had prepared her to carry out this type of operation with John Watson involved. She closes her eyes and draws a slow breath in an attempt to steady herself.

          "John. I'm going to tell you this one more time. You have got to stay here. I'd really rather not resort to Mycroft's methods, but I will."

          "You're gonna have to, then, cause you know bloody well I'm not sitting at home while this happens!"

          "I don't give a fuck if you sit at home or go to the cinema, John! _He_ wants you there, god damn it, and _he_ is not dictating the terms of this. He wants you there, so there is the only place where you will not be!"

          He cocks his head at her very slightly and she curses inwardly. Stubborn git has heard ten different arguments and steadfastly refused to acknowledge any of them. She's prepared to taser him, tie him up and leave him with two – better make it three – armed guards. But she likes John, in a way she hasn't liked anyone in years, because John is a fundamentally good person, more than a little damaged, but not beyond repair. She doesn't see many these days. She doesn't want to hurt him, or take his choices away.

          Something of these thoughts must show on her face because John drops his head suddenly, heaves a sigh. "You're just doing your job, here, Jane and I know that, all right – I know that. But I – I already said to you, before, several times in fact, that if it's Sherlock and he's in trouble I've got no choice. I need to be there."

          "And I'm telling you. If you're there we stand far too high a chance of no one coming home safely, least of all Sherlock."

          "Right, because Mycroft promised Sebastian fucking Moran that he could have me."

          Some long-standing loyalty prodded Jane to clarify. "He made that promise with no intention of letting that actually happen. And I'm sure not letting it."

          "Where is he, anyway? Think he'd more involved, wouldn't you?"

          Jane smiles. "Fat cat? No way. He's behind a desk, and there he'll stay until he's needed to swoop in and save the day. Or ruin it. Whichever suits him. He's put me in charge of this extremely unofficial operation."

          "In charge is a good look on you."

          "John Watson, are you actually, honestly, flirting with me _right now_?"

          John laughs and holds his hands up in surrender. "It's an automatic response! I know it's ridiculous."

          "It is, a bit. Timing and all that. I'm about to go try to rescue your boyfriend from a psychopath. Not an ideal scenario for chatting me up. Actually, there is no scenario in which it is acceptable for you to chat me up." She's smiling, means it as a joke, of course, but his eyebrows have drawn together. "Hey, John, I'm just –"

          "He's not my boyfriend. I mean. He's not – that."

          "John, for God's sake. Isn't that just semantics at this point?"

          "Maybe, but it's important. It matters."

          "Does it?"

          "I really ought to make a recording of myself so I don't have to keep on saying it – I'm not his date, we're not a couple, he's not mine, I'm not gay."

          "And I'm asking you. Does that matter?"

          "Of course it bloody matters!"

          "But _why_ does it?"

          John is silent. Stares at her, jaw working. Finally he shrugs. There is such defeat in that gesture that cannot stop herself from crossing the room to sit next to him. "It doesn't matter, John. You've always seen yourself one way, and before you met him, that's the way it was. But things like that do change, John, they change all the time, or we become aware of them when we weren't before. But you're still, even now, looking at everything through that one lens. There is so much you are not seeing."

          "Like?"

          "You love him, John, and you know that you do. And I don't mean the way you love a friend or a brother in arms. I mean you love him like you've never loved anything. And for God's sake, you idiot, he loves you even more than that."

          "How do you know?"

          "I don't want to be flip about it but, I have eyes, and I'm pretty good at reading people, you know? And his fear for you – his need to protect you. I saw that every day, in everything we did. And you! Look at yourself, right now. You know there's a better than even chance Moran could win this thing, could keep Sherlock, could kill him, could someone still get ahold of you. And I don't know his plans, but I've seen his work, and it won't be a pretty end for you. But if I let you, you'd go headfirst. Just to be in the same room with him that much faster."

          John has squeezed his eyes shut as she's talked, and his hand is faintly trembling. Finally he forces out something which does not at all resemble a laugh. "Jane Turner, master assassin and relationship counselor."

          "You might as well acknowledge that you've heard my real name, John. You heard him call me Siobhan. Murtagh. Although don't you call me that," she warns. "I've seen a lot. Lost a lot. Made others lose, more than I've any idea about. It's in our power to have this one thing go right. One time, the good guys can win."

          "You still believe in good guys?"

          "No. Not at all. But today, I'd like to. So just… fucking stay put, all right? I swear to you, John. I will do everything I can to bring him back to you."

          "And what are you going to do with Moran?"

          "Any goddamned thing I like."

\--

          In the end, as a concession, Jane sets him up with a video feed of the space they've arranged for the meeting.

          "Where do you lot find all these abandoned warehouses and car parks? Do you timeshare with the league of evil or something?" 

          He thinks it's a pretty valid question, but Jane is all business. "The audio is dead now but we'll have wires on us when we go in, you ought to pick it up all right on this earpiece. John, under no circumstances are you to interfere in any way. Are we clear?"

          "I don't even know where the fucking place is, do I?"

          Jane gives him a last glare, hard and searching, and shakes her head slightly. "Part of me just really wants to cuff you to something."

          "Well, now look who's flirting."

          "I'm finished with you. I really am," she swears, but John hears her chuckling all the way out of the flat. He lets out a steady sigh, of relief, mostly, but a little bit of regret. Because he likes Jane, a lot actually, and tricking her doesn't feel right, but there was nothing else to be done. He looks uncomfortably round at the men Jane has left stationed at his kitchen table. They're clearly closer to Mycroft's ilk than Jane's, both in suits and working on sleek Blackberrys. It was unfortunate that he has to hurt them, but his window of opportunity to follow Jane is very small. The small team that had spent the morning operating out of the flat were putting their heads together for a final time before heading to the meet, and he had to be ready to move when they did.

          He stood up and stretched, turned the volume up on the telly and headed for the kitchen. "'Scuse me, fellas, just gonna make a cuppa. You want?"

          They didn't respond, didn't even look up at him, just kept tapping away. He was reminded forcibly of 'Anthea' and that first night, what felt like a lifetime ago. Just as well, he reckoned he'd have a harder time of it if these two were friendly or even borderline polite. He filled the kettle and swung around from the sink to set it on its base, purposely overbalancing and sloshing water on the table. Both men jumped up, affronted by the risk to their gadgets (and possibly their suits). "Whoops, sorry chaps," he laughed affably, relishing their scornful glances before swinging out with the kettle again, connecting with the taller one's temple, hard enough to send him staggering, and landing a hit on the other's jaw, a frankly lucky shot that dropped him in one go. John pushed a chair behind the one still standing and gave it a hard enough kick to knock him off his feet, and another punch sent him finally to the floor. John wanted to leave them like that but couldn't risk them coming to in mere minutes and alerting Jane, so with a pang of guilt he pushed away for the moment, he found the syringes of sedative he'd smuggled out of his bedroom earlier. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when in their cohabitation he and Sherlock had decided to begin stocking the flat with weapons placed at odd intervals, but it had been a good decision in hindsight. Though they'd never yet had a reason for the mini crossbow behind the cow skull.

          He slid the needle in each man quickly, tossed the syringes aside and made for the window of the sitting room. The lead car, driven by Jane, was only just pulling away from the kerb. It wasn't a particularly short drop to the top of Mrs. Hudson's bins, and John felt his knees jar a bit more than they might have done in years past, but he managed to get on the ground and into a taxi, with eyes on Jane's vehicle. It was only then, successfully escaped from the flat and en route, that he realized he hadn't the faintest idea what he was going to when they arrived at the garage. He didn't know Jane's plan, either, but he had the audio feed. He regretted not being more tech-savvy and figuring out how to get the video on his mobile or something. Sherlock probably could.

          With momentarily nothing to do and adrenaline thrumming below the surface, John drifted into an old standby of combat awareness, enough attention focused on ensuring the cabbie followed Jane's vehicle, but stayed far enough back she wouldn't spot it. A generous preemptive tip and the cabbie was playing her role rather adeptly. The rest of his mind returned, as ever, to thoughts of Sherlock. Jane was right, of course she was right, it wasn't as if it were news to John that he was in love with Sherlock. He was a bit more surprised by her matter of fact statement that Sherlock felt the same way, and wasn't prepared to accept it, but a certain element of it felt true in his gut. That Sherlock always sought to protect John. They'd gotten themselves in this whole mess trying to protect each other. Sacrificing, one for the other, over and over again. They'd have to work on that.

          Forty years on the planet hadn't left John a hopeful man, but he felt the stirring of it in his chest at the idea that they had a future – that Sherlock still _was_ , and that they could _be_ – but he reigned himself in quickly. He wanted to trust Jane, but Moran was enough of a wild card that John wouldn't trust anything until he was again by Sherlock's side, and they were heading home.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been ages, I know. Thank you if you've stuck with this. It's coming very quickly to an end now. One more chapter after this, two at most.

          Sherlock sat with his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the cab. He drank in London with greedy eyes. The flight back had almost overwhelmed him. It had been weeks since he'd seen anyone other than Sebastian. He had almost lost the discipline necessary to focus, to filter the data stream down to something manageable. Being in the airport was like a hit of cocaine, the flight itself like coming down in the most excruciating way. Sebastian had taken one look at him, barely after takeoff, fidgeting and grimacing in his seat, and pressed 2 white tablets into his hand, which Sherlock had swallowed gratefully. He remained too wired to sleep, but could at least sit still enough not to attract attention. Sebastian had given him a pair of jeans which fit much too loosely, and a plain white t-shirt which was a horrible, scratchy cotton blend. He'd stuck a blue baseball cap on Sherlock's head and given him a look which didn't need words. _Behave, Sherlock_.

          He didn't need to be told, not really, but it was difficult to reign himself in when they landed at Heathrow. Mycroft had provided the paperwork, so their passage was effortless, but the sudden rush of London, of home, was something Sherlock hadn't expected. It seemed dangerously sentimental, how his knees threatened to give out at the influx not only of hundreds, thousands, of people and all their data, all his senses, but memories too, and a fondness for the very air that he's certain he did not feel before.

          "Think you can keep it together if we walk for a bit?"

          Sherlock nods. Sebastian pays the driver and holds his door for Sherlock to climb out. His hand closes tightly above Sherlock's elbow. Sherlock shakes it off. "I'm _fine_ , you needn't coddle me."

          Sebastian fills Sherlock in as they walk. Mycroft is meeting them and as soon as Sebastian receives his ransom, Sherlock is free to go. Sherlock asks, again, what Sebastian had asked for in exchange. He'd seen the accounts, Sebastian certainly didn't need money. And he was clever enough to disappear, he didn't need immunity or protection or anything else Mycroft could provide.

          Sebastian pushes Sherlock a few steps into an alley. "You ask me that again, I'm changing the terms. Way it stands right now, you get to live. Don't fucking push me, Holmes."

          "You're not actually nervous are you? Surely you've done this before."

          "This was always his thing. Not mine. I just held the rifle. I don't need you trying to be clever on top of your fucking brother, so keep your mouth shut for once, all right?"

          All this way, Sherlock has failed to really see Sebastian. The familiar smudges under his eyes have deepened to purple half-circles. Sherlock glances at his hands and is unsurprised to see his nails bitten down, cuticles jagged. He’s exhausted. Sherlock has always been aware Sebastian is half-mad, cycling through moods too quickly for Sherlock to track. Sherlock remembers the feel of Sebastian’s breath huffing against him, the dark and cold thing in his eyes. The shaking grief, revealed for a moment then buried, a twisting anger seen in a flash then gone. It is becoming clearer in Sherlock’s mind that Sebastian is probably more than half-mad. Sherlock cannot make sense of his motivations, has no insight about how his mind works. It is troubling and Sherlock has rarely experienced a thing like it. He can read circumstances from Sebastian as easily as anyone else, but is still, somehow, unable to see a bigger picture.

          Sherlock gives a slight nod and they resume walking.

          Mycroft’s involvement is appallingly evident in the choice of venue for this meeting. _Such_ dramatics. As they enter the building, Sherlock is not surprised that  Mycroft himself is not present (far too involved for the lazy sod), but is rather jarred to see Jane standing alone in the middle of the cavernous space. Judging from the tension which steals over his entire body, Sebastian is rather surprised as well.

          “Siobhan. Back on active duty, then? Is that a good idea?”

          She just smirks at him. “All right, Moran.” She then focuses her attention on Sherlock. “Holmes. Had fun?”

          A tightening of Sebastian’s hand on his elbow stops Sherlock responding. “Don’t talk to him. You don’t get him back until I get mine.”

          “You know that isn’t how it works. Holmes walks out of here, then we—“

          Before Sherlock can blink, Sebastian has grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him down until his knees crack on the pavement. Jane remains entirely still but when she speaks her voice is ice down Sherlock’s spine. “If you hurt him, I will kill you right here.”

          “God damn this. I’ve been cooperative – I’ve been bloody _reasonable_ , just give me what I came for!”

          Sherlock felt his pulse quicken – it’d been a maddening itch in his brain, what Sebastian wanted, and he was finally going to have it relieved.

          “He’s not here.”

          Sebastian’s hand leaves Sherlock’s hair and returns as a cold press of metal against his temple. He has certainly had a gun held to his head before, but he cannot help a sharp intake of breath at the sensation, the sudden swoop of fear in his stomach. Jane’s eyes find his and look apologetic, and the fear grows.

          “Now, Sebastian, you know if you do that you don’t get what you want. You don’t even get to walk away.”

          Sebastian laughs, and it’s somehow more frightening than anything that’s gone before.

          “He doesn’t care.” In the wash of realization, Sherlock barely realizes he’s spoken the words aloud. Sebastian twitches slightly.

          “Shut up, Holmes.”

          “This is the end for him, anyway, Jane, don’t you see? He’s doesn’t care if he walks out of here.”

          “He’s right, of course. So I’ve really got no problem splattering these precious brains all over the pavement if you don’t give me Watson.”

          Sherlock’s mind grinds to a halt. Watson. Give me Watson. He almost hears a click as the pieces snap into place. He pitches his voice low, smooth, feigning at understanding, empathetic: “Sebastian. You can’t, surely you don’t think – you can’t _still_ be following his orders? He’s gone, Sebastian, you don’t need to –“

          The crack of Sebastian’s knuckles across his cheekbone stops the desperate flow of words. “I really don’t get why the boss found you so entertaining. You’re getting it wrong, Holmes, again.”

          “Then why do you want John?”

 

\- - - - -

 

          People think Sherlock knows everything. Understands everything. But he has glaring areas of ignorance – the solar system is the least significant. John had slipped through an unlocked service entrance, questioning Jane’s recon, and found himself in a disused storage area. A second door leads to the main floor of the warehouse, and crouching behind it gives John cover and allows him to hear, if not see, what was happening inside. It took more effort than he ever could have imagined to hold himself in place when he heard Sherlock’s voice. He was somehow much less shocked to hear Moran name John as the thing he was after. He could’ve laughed at Sherlock’s question. He waits for an answer, for Moran to speak again, but nothing came. The silence stretches taut along John’s spine, and he goes to his knees to peer around the door and see what’s happening. Moran has a gun pressed against the base of Sherlock’s skull, and Sherlock is holding a hand to his bleeding cheek.         

          The sight of Sherlock’s blood makes John’s breath catch in his throat.  But still, no one spoke. Jane is opposite Moran, and John cannot see her face. He senses rather than sees the presence of snipers in the far corners of the building. Either they know who he is, or they haven’t spotted him yet. Which means he needs to be quick. He pushes himself to his feet, takes a steadying breath, and strides out of his hiding place. He hears Jane’s sharp intake of breath as she spotted him, and Moran’s head snaps to the side to see what had caused it. John doesn’t frighten easily, but the look which takes over Moran’s face sends a chill through him.

          Sherlock is still kneeling, has not looked up. John walks close enough that his shoes will be in Sherlock’s line of sight, and holds his breath. He can tell the moment Sherlock recognizes him (it is almost instantaneous), and his shoulders go rigid, and his breath leaves him entirely. He can barely gasp John’s name, and can only move his eyes up to find John’s, Moran’s pistol still pushed against his head. John gives him a tight smile, and then looks at Moran. “Well? Are you going to explain it, or shall I?”

          Moran shakes his head and opens his mouth to respond, but Jane cuts in. “John, what are you _doing_ here?”

          “Sorry. You were right.” He gives her a rueful smile and looks again at Sherlock.

          Sherlock turns his head as far as he can to see John, “Right about what?”

          John desperately wants to kneel beside Sherlock, to hold his face between his hands, but he cannot surrender the advantage of standing, not while every nerve in his body is alight with Moran’s gaze, with the heat of the gun on Sherlock. He settled for stepping a bit closer and pitching his voice low. “She said I’d risk everything just to be in the same room with you.”

          “John?” The undisguised uncertainty in that one word nearly brings John to his knees, damn the consequences. He works his jaw and blows air through his nose, fighting for composure.

          “Lovely,” Moran presses the muzzle slightly harder into Sherlock’s flesh, and John’s fingers twitch. The world has narrowed to getting that gun away from Sherlock. The rest could sort itself out.

          “You wanted me. I’m here. Let him go.”

          “John, don’t be absurd.”

           “It’s fine, Sherlock. Jane, get him out of here.”

          Moran smirks, and does not lower his gun. “Never dreamed it’d be so easy.” He finally, _finally_ , pulls the gun back. He leans down and says something to Sherlock, free hand squeezing around his upper arm, but John can not hear the words. Sherlock’s eyes take on a slightly shuttered look, and John’s stomach clenches. Moran shifts the gun to John. “I’d imagined I’d get a fight out of you.” John knows he is being baited, chews the inside of his lip to hold it together. He just needs to get Moran away from Sherlock. “Right then, you go on ahead.” He gestures with the gun for John to walk ahead of him. He turns away, trying not to wonder if this is, really, the last time he’ll see Sherlock. He’s not even looking him in the eye. John out the breath he’s been holding, and realizes he’s been waiting for Sherlock to save the day, somehow. But he sits and stares at the ground as Moran pushes John out the same entrance he used to sneak in, gun jammed firmly against the small of his back.

          Being in imminent danger is not precisely new to John. Of course he is frightened, because he knows that any death Sebastian Moran has planned for him will not be quick, or painless. He has felt a variation of this fear before, many times over, but he has never been quite this bothered about it. He hasn’t even really gotten Sherlock back yet, and he has to leave him. It’s suddenly intolerable, and he stops walking. Moran chuckles. "Ah, there he is. You're gonna want to keep walking, though."

          "You're going to kill me either way. Why not just do it now?"

          "That's a fair point. Because I figure, even if you're gonna die, you want Holmes alive. So start walking."

          "I don't…"

          Moran pulls a mobile from his pocket, flashes the screen at John. "I dial this number, that building goes up."

          John's stomach drops. "Bollocks. You're bluffing."

          "I knew what I was facing. Siobhan's a smart girl, and I do my best not to underestimate Mycroft Holmes. You think I'd do this without a backup plan? We can test it if you like." Still displaying the screen to John, Moran thumbs in a number and hovers over the green send icon.

          "No, no, wait."

          Moran smirks and moves to put the phone back into his pocket. John takes advantage of the momentary shift in focus. John remembers Moran's speed, his power, and puts everything he has into grabbing Moran's wrist with his right hand and tugging, dropping to a knee to pull Moran forward, and using the tiny moment before Moran regains his balance to grab the other wrist, pressing his knuckles into the pressure point. Moran is obviously no stranger to hand-to-hand, and the pain seems to barely affect him, but John was relying on a counter-attack. When Moran's shakes John's hand off his other wrist, and pulls it from his pocket to strike at John, he puts his free hand on Moran's forearm. Moran's knee catches him on the chin, and pain blooms through him with the burst of blood into his mouth. Moran is punching into John's side with as much force as he can muster with this leverage, and John grits his teeth and focuses on the hold he has on Moran's wrist. As quickly as he can, he yanks Moran's forearm up and his wrist down, hearing the crunch of bone. Not quite a break, but more than enough for Moran's grip to weaken. He drops the gun, which John promptly picks up and trains on him.

          "Nicely done." Moran's voice barely betrays the pain he must be in. "So what happens now? You call Jane, and she calls Mycroft, and I get locked up? Is that what you're hoping for?"

          "I'm not really fussed what they do with you."

          "You probably should be. You did a great job there, getting my weapon – oh, wait," and he pulls the mobile back out. _Shit._ "Don’t worry, Watson. Not our job to be geniuses, is it? That was them. Go ahead and give that back, now. We'll go on our way. I don't mind you fighting back. Makes it all a little more fun, really."

          John's arms are weakening, the pain in his side from Moran's punches starting to come into focus. He can't take his eyes off Moran for the time it takes to spit, so he swallows the blood in his mouth. They can't do this forever. "I'm not going. I'm not leaving him. So what do we do?"

          "We take him out of the equation." And he is swiping his thumb over the mobile's lock screen, and John's heart jumps, and in the end it is the easiest decision he's ever made. It's a decision he's made before, and one he suspects he would make again. He takes his shot. The mobile clatters uselessly to the ground.

          His heartbeat is thumping in his ears, and it takes him a moment to differentiate the sound of approaching footsteps – running, of course he is, _towards_ the sound of a gunshot. John doesn't know what Sherlock was expecting, or hoping, or fearing to see, but he stops short. His eyes dart wildly from John to Moran's body, and his brows draw together at the sight. Jane is a few steps behind. John's brain snaps back online. "Jane, you've got to get your team out of there, there's an explosive – the mobile was the trigger – "

          Sherlock breaks in. "You didn't have to do that. You didn't have to kill him."

          John is beyond the point of being able to process this. "I should have let him kill you?"

          "He was obviously bluffing, he would never have killed me – why would he do that, John, when I'm his only bargaining chip? You didn't even think! God, I don't know why I'm surprised, clearly I've misremembered your intelligence—"

          "Oi! That's enough of that, he's been through hell for you, don't—"

          "Oh, another woman fallen to the Watson charm, how very predictable. What is it, Jane, are you actually incapable of not sleeping with every man you work for?"

          "What is your _problem,_ Holmes?"

          "This was handled wrong from the start. He shouldn't even be here! You were incapable of doing the most important thing!"

          "I tried my best to keep John out of trouble—"

          "Oh, John didn't need to be kept out of trouble, apparently, he needed to kept from _causing_ trouble! This—" he gestures to Moran's body without looking at it, "was entirely unnecessary!" He continues shouting, but John can no longer listen. He takes a few steps away from Sherlock, nearly staggering with the wash of exhaustion and confusion that are fighting with fury and indignation in his mind. He dimly registers another person approaching, footsteps, nearly too light to be heard. "I think it's time you stopped talking, Sherlock."

          "Of course. Of bloody course you show up, Mycroft, too late to be any good to anyone!"

          "Sherlock. Control yourself this instant." To everyone's surprise, Mycroft's words seem to penetrate Sherlock's haze, and he draws himself up to his full height as his brother approaches. John finds himself itching to raise his gun and put a bullet between Mycroft's eyes.

          Sherlock snorts. "Usually you're satisfied by one cold-blooded murder a night. Clearly much has changed."

          John has to run, then, has to put as much distance as he can between himself and Sherlock's cold face, has to run until the air is burning in his chest and his legs give out, and even as he collapses miles away, he has not run far enough. 


	21. Chapter 21

          Mycroft clicks off his mobile with a soft sigh. He glances at Sherlock, who has folded himself into his leather armchair. "They located and disarmed the explosive." Sherlock does not respond. He doesn't care. There is nothing interesting about an undetonated bomb. He wants desperately to ask where John is, but he doesn't wish to speak to his brother more than necessary. Mycroft had shoved him into a car and taken him away within moments. Sherlock wanted to run after John, he wanted to go to his knees beside Sebastian (though he did not understand the impulse, it was there all the same). "Jane will be coming by shortly."

          "What for?"

          "Debriefing, naturally."

          "And since when do your debriefs take place in my flat?"

          "My business must go on."

          "You can go," Sherlock points out. Mycroft raises an eyebrow but doesn't deign to respond. "What are you going to do with Jane? You can't send her back to personnel."

          "Have you grown fond of her? How touching."

          "You're the one she has a torrid history with, evidently."

          "Yes, thank you, Sherlock." It's his dismissive tone, which Sherlock always finds irritating but now simply cannot bear. He stands and sweeps from the room, trying to hide the wince as his sore knees unbend.

          He retreats to his bedroom, feeling an unbelievable relief as he sinks onto his bed. It smells of John, and a piece suddenly falls into place. He strides back out into the sitting room.

          "John came after me." Mycroft looks up, for a split second showing his surprise. "Tell me!"

          "Yes, he did. He and Jane struck out on their own, and found where you were being held. They were prevented from reaching you."

          "By. Whom."

          "Sherlock, don't be childish. You knew I had an arrangement with Mr. Moran."

          "You let me stay there all that time. For what?"

          "Would you ever have done that work otherwise?"

          For a moment Sherlock is entirely unable to respond. He knows his brother to be capable of terrible things, but this is something beyond what he would have believed.

          "It was regrettable, I agree. But it was necessary. I was quite certain there would be no lasting harm."

          "You agreed to give him John?"

          "I would not have allowed it to come to that."

          "You lied to him, and put John's life in jeopardy, and had me held captive and starved and beaten – so I would organize Moriarty's network for you?"

          "So we can stop it, Sherlock. One of the world's largest terror cells, dismantled. Is that not worth it?"

          Suddenly Sherlock simply wants to go to sleep. The events of the day, of the past months, _years_ , are pressing in on him bodily and he is worried he will collapse. He turns away from Mycroft and finds John standing in the door. From the set of his jaw he is barely containing himself from shouting, but as he catches sight of Sherlock's face, he softens.

          "Bloody hell," he whispers. "Come on, Sherlock. You need to lie down. Mrs. Hudson is sending up some tea." Sherlock feels tears prick his eyes at the idea of a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea. He shakes his head at himself. John lets out a soft sigh and steps over to Sherlock. He places a hand in the small of Sherlock's back and gently pushes him through the kitchen. He turns his back and gestures to Sherlock to get out of his clothes and get in bed. Sherlock gratefully sheds the clothes Sebastian had given him.

          "None of your things are here, they're all – some of them are gone, you know, donated. Some things we kept. No pyjamas, though. Just mine, if you want them."

          Sherlock nods, then realizes John is still facing the other way. He is standing in just a cheap pair of Y-fronts. "Yes, please."

          "They're just there on the bed. I… they're not clean, Mrs. Hudson put me in here when we got back."

          Sherlock wordlessly puts on the shirt and bottoms. He is too tired and grateful to be bothered that nothing fits properly. "When you got back from trying to rescue me?"

          John turns around. "Not one of my more successful missions."

          "You were up against Mycroft. I can hardly hold it against you." Sherlock flops onto the bed on his stomach. He feels John sit on the edge, the small of his back not quite touching Sherlock's thigh.

          "Are you all right?"

          Sherlock shrugs. "Too much," he mumbles into the pillow.

          He feels John's hand on his back, briefly. "Have a sleep. I'll be next door if you need me."

          Sherlock remembers, he said the same thing after the woman had drugged him. Sherlock remembers his response, _why would I need you?_

 

          How could he have ever been so stupid?

 

-

 

          John sits in the kitchen drinking his tea. He'd peeked in on Sherlock when Mrs. Hudson came up, but he was fast asleep and John did not want to wake him, even for tea. He is listening to Mycroft and Jane discuss her return to work as an active agent, and trying not to fall asleep with his head on the table. His side is aching from Moran's punches and he's desperate for a shower, but he wants to be there if Sherlock wakes up and needs him.

          Jane finally joins John at the table when Mycroft steps outside to make some calls. "Got your job back, then?"

          "I guess I do."

          "That what you want?"

          She is quiet for a long moment. "I think it is."

          John smiles at her, as enthusiastically as he can manage.

          "Shit, John. You look done in. Why don't you go upstairs?"

          He shrugs. "Can't leave him, can I?"

          "John, what he went through – you know he's just confused. He's not – the way he acted back there, he didn't mean – "

          "Yeah." John does not want apologies made for Sherlock.

          Mycroft returns after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence. "Dr. Watson, I trust you will look after my brother?"

          "I don't think I need to answer that."

          Mycroft inclines his head. "Of course. Jane, shall we go?"

          She glances over at John and nods. "I'll see you, I’m sure." John stands when she does and hugs her. She squeezes his back and pulls away with a rueful smile. "You did good, John." He swallows, nods. She sighs and follows Mycroft out. John barely sits back down before Sherlock's door opens.

          "Oh, good, I'm spared the farewells." He walks to the table and frowns. "I've missed the tea."

          "I can make more," John starts to rise and Sherlock pushes him back down.

          "No need. I think - perhaps I'll lie back down, actually."

          John's head snaps up. "Are you feeling sick?"

          "A bit dizzy, is all."

          "When was the last time you had any food?"

          "Biscuits, on the plane."

          "Nearly a day ago, by now."

          "You've not eaten, either."

          The very idea of food turns John's stomach.

          "Yeah, maybe we ought to just sleep."

          John stands and waits for Sherlock to go into his room. Sherlock simply stands, looking at his feet.

          "What's wrong?"

          "Are you – were you going to sleep upstairs?"

          "I – well, yes, I was, but –"

          Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I'd rather not be alone." His voice is low and he will not look at John's face.

          Any residual anger John has simply crumbles at this. He nods, and without thinking, takes Sherlock's hand.

          He washes his face in the en suite. When he comes out Sherlock has settled back into the bed. John sits on the edge again. "How's your cheek? We should've iced it. Turn over, let me look."

          Sherlock shakes his head. "Unnecessary. You ought to get yourself looked at. I'm certain he didn't go down without a fight."

          "Few bruises. I'm fine."

          "John. When you showed up today – which was incredibly stupid, by the way – you said you understood it. I don't. I – it makes no sense, why he wanted you. I don’t understand what that would have accomplished.”

          “It’s the same thing it always is when you don’t understand. Sentiment.”

          Sherlock does not respond, but the lines of his body have gotten tense. John sighs. “He was Moriarty’s right-hand man. And Moriarty died because of you. He died and you didn’t.”

          “Then why not kill me? That seems the purest vengeance.”

          “He has to live without his – well, whatever Moriarty was to him. He must’ve thought to make you live without your – whatever I am. He must’ve seen that as a fair trade. Guess he wasn’t that smart after all.” 

          “John?”

          “He misjudged it, didn’t he? He could’ve gone ahead and killed me; it wouldn’t have achieved what he was hoping it would have.”

          “He was hoping to ruin me.”

          John doesn’t respond. He is exhausted, suddenly, from so long wanting and waiting and hoping.

          “It would have done. You do know that, don’t you? If he’d killed you, it would have ruined me.”

          “You’d have been fine.” John moves to stand, and Sherlock quickly flips onto his side and grabs John’s wrist.  

          “No. I wouldn’t be. I _wasn’t_. I missed you, John, I – suppose I should have said that. I assumed you understood, but you seem to be missing the point.”

          “Yeah, well, that’s me all over. John ‘missing the point’ Watson, bloody hell, Sherlock, let me go!” he wrenches his arm out of Sherlock’s ever-tightening grip.

          “No, no, John, listen to me. Please. I reacted poorly today. I – I suppose I came to feel badly for him, for Sebastian – we – we became – he was – this is infuriating!” He releases John's wrist and folds his arms over his face.

          John watches his skinny chest heaving and feels ashamed of himself. He's been through a lot, but Sherlock's been through worse. “Hey, Sherlock. It's all right. Just tell me what you want to tell me.”

          “But I need to get it _right_.”

          “You don’t. You really don’t. I’m not going anywhere, okay, just – slow down, and explain it.”

          “I want to say that I cared for him, though it’s not the most accurate word.”

          “You were alone for awhile, weren’t you? He only came back sometimes?” A kind of comprehension is dawning in John’s mind. Sherlock nods. “It makes sense. You were alone. Lonely, and frightened, and he was there.”

          “It was more than that, it wasn’t – bloody Stockholm syndrome. He and I felt the same way. We both – you’re right, that I was lonely, and so was he and I – “

          “Sympathized with him.” Sherlock makes a face and John can’t help but smile. “Yes, Sherlock. You experienced genuine empathy. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

          “How is possible you are still not understanding?” Sherlock sits up, bringing his face close enough that John can feel his breath. “He got it absolutely right, John. He loved Moriarty, I believe they were – I suppose I’d say involved, though I’ve no idea how mutual it was. He loved Moriarty, and Moriarty was gone. He did have it right, John. He was going to do to me what I’d inadvertently done to him. If he’d taken you away, we’d be even, we would both have lost –“ Sherlock’s voice sticks in his throat and he swallows, hard.

          “Please, Sherlock. Please, if you have something to say – please.”

          Sherlock nods, and the next words rush out with his breath. “We’d both have lost the person we love.”

          John is overwhelmed by the wave of utter relief that passes through him. He has to close his eyes against the swoop in his stomach. He opens them when the wash of Sherlock’s breath disappears and the weight on the bed shifts away. “Shit, no, Sherlock, don’t _leave_ –“ he reaches out and grabs Sherlock by the waist. Sherlock goes still in his arms as John hauls him back. He presses his face to Sherlock’s back and lets out a breath. "I’m sorry, I – I wasn’t prepared for how good that was going to feel. To hear you say that, Sherlock, I –"

          Sherlock twists in his arms, and John suddenly has a lapful of warm, faintly trembling Sherlock, and he has to remind himself to breathe or he is likely to black out. Sherlock has fixed him with a laser stare so familiar and so long gone that John’s chest physically aches to see it.

          “John, If you have something to say,” he mimics. John shakes his head slowly and reaches a hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw, then slides it into his damp curls.

          “You didn’t say please,” he whispers, but he cannot wait, will not make Sherlock wait – he tilts his face upward, guides Sherlock's face down, and presses their mouths together. Sherlock's lips part under his immediately and he shudders and John thinks his chest will split open with how hard his heart starts pounding. Sherlock pulls back slightly and smiles against John's mouth. He might want to say something, but John cannot stop kissing him long enough to find out. John works his hands under Sherlock's shirt to grip at the warm skin of his back, and Sherlock grabs at John's hips desperately, finally getting frustrated and pushing John backwards until he is flat on the mattress, his feet still dangling over the side. Sherlock’s kisses are forceful and messy and needy and John feels like he is drowning and Sherlock is shaking and clutching and crying.

          John lifts his chin, turns his face slightly to separate their mouths. “Hey, Sherlock, it’s okay.” Sherlock’s only response is to bury his face in John’s neck, tears falling onto John’s skin. He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back as tightly as he can, wanting to cry himself.

          “It’s not okay. You shouldn’t forgive me, John, for what I’ve done.”

          John takes a deep breath. It’s a conversation they’ll have to have, eventually, and John will have to admit he doesn’t forgive him, not really, not yet, maybe not ever – but there is time for that conversation and the dozens of others they need to have – there is time to shout and throw things, and no doubt that they will. But for this moment, Sherlock and John are alive and holding each other, they are safe and they are home, and the rest is irrelevant.

          “Sherlock. Nothing that’s happened has changed the way I feel about you. Even the things I don’t know about yet, the things you will have to tell me. I love you, you know, I probably always have. I’m sorry I didn’t say it.”

          “Me too,” he whispers.

          John squeezes his arms around Sherlock’s back and presses kisses into his hair. “We’ll be all right,” he promises. Sherlock nods sleepily. Once he falls asleep, John has just enough strength left to haul them both properly onto the bed and tilt until Sherlock slides off and immediately snuggles against John’s side. He is aware of the kick his heart gives at this before he crashes into sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be the last. thank you all for reading.


	22. Coda.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

          Sherlock slept for nearly 5 hours, and spent an additional hour observing John’s sleep. When he simply could not remain still any longer, he quietly slipped into the sitting room and found John’s files – the entire body of work which John  had compiled (and apparently Lestrade had no small part) to clear his name in the courts and the press. It overwhelms Sherlock – not the task itself, quite rudimentary really, but that John had undergone it at all. All the time he’s loved John, and never seen – never _observed_ – that John loved him, too. Exactly the same way. It occurs to him that he’s glad he didn’t know this before. It was difficult enough to leave him behind. If he’d known how John would grieve him, he might not have been able to do what needed to be done.

          John’s voice comes from the bedroom door, low and soft – John’s ‘middle of the night’ voice, soothing and familiar. “I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer.”

          Sherlock turns slightly and holds up a sheaf of papers. “Compelling reading.”

          “Figures you’d think so. It’s all about how wonderful you are.” John comes closer but remains resolutely outside of Sherlock’s range. His smile is the tentative one, most often seen the morning after a case is solved. Worried, then – waiting to see how Sherlock feels before he proceeds.

          He extends an arm in John’s direction. “John. Don’t be ridiculous. Come here.”

The waves of relief that radiate from John make Sherlock’s stomach flip. John cannot believe him to be inconstant. John must understand that this is not changing. John rests his hip on the arm of the sofa and relaxes into Sherlock when he wraps an arm around John’s waist. “You did all this. It’s – quite remarkable, John.”

          “Wasn’t just me.”

          “No one else would have even tried. They were all so ready to believe the worst – no one else had this faith in me. No one but you, John.”

          John leans his face into Sherlock’s hair. “That’s not true. All of this was only possible because of the exact opposite – everyone you helped, they believed in you. Without their testimony, no one would have listened to me. The ones who didn’t – the ones who got taken in by – by Moriarty. They thought I was just too far under your spell. Too besotted to see the reality.”

          “Well, you have always put a bit of a romantic spin on what I do. As is your wont.”

          “You would, of course, prefer an exacting and scientific accounting of yourself from my perspective.”

          “Oh, John, yes. How remarkable that would be.”

          John gestures to the pages Sherlock is holding, the stacks on the table. “Here it is. You are a genius. Your natural talent helps, of course – your sensory acuity. But you work hard, too. You’ve disciplined your mind and your body and turned your entire life into _this_. Helping people.” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John holds up a hand and he falls silent. “Yes, you do it because you like puzzles. You need the work. Because, as you say, your mind ‘rebels at stagnation.’ But that isn’t the only reason. It was Mycroft who said it, actually. The brain of a scientist or a philosopher. Yet you chose to become a detective. What might that say about your heart?”

          Sherlock finds it difficult to swallow. “Sounds like Mycroft’s poetic drivel.”

          “You do it because you are a good man, Sherlock. A difficult one, I will never argue. Frustrating. Infuriating. Petulant.”

          “This was going rather better a minute ago.”

          John shakes his head slightly. “I’m as angry with you as I’ve ever been at anyone in my life. But I love you, you gigantic sod, and that hasn’t changed – won’t change, probably ever. So that’s where we are, then. I’ll shout at you sometimes.”

          “But you’ll kiss me sometimes, too?”

          “Only when I can’t help it. So, every day, yes. As much as you’d like.”

          Sherlock’s throat really is being unacceptably uncooperative. “That’s… acceptable, yes. More than.” He tightens his arm around John’s lower back and scoops him forward so he’s sitting sideways, halfway in Sherlock’s lap, his back against the arm of the sofa.

          “Bloody hell, Sherlock, give a man his dignity.”

          “No, I fully intend to be undignified.” He sets his lips beneath John’s ear and the resulting sigh lets him know that John is just fine with undignified, for the moment. Sherlock has more questions, hundreds more, to cover every conceivable circumstance he and John will encounter in their future. But for the moment, he catalogues and shelves the questions and takes a moment to reflect that he and John will have a future. Which will at least sometimes feature this, kissing John’s neck and stroking a thumb over his medial malleolus. A spike of fear in his chest at the thought of this thing he’d dreamed of, made real, dizzy and terrifying in its uncertainty. The fear is easily soothed by running his fingers through the hair at the nape of John’s neck. John does not react, and Sherlock is surprised and delighted to see that he’s slipped back into sleep. Sherlock has always liked to regard him in this way, and recalls the time before all this, when he’d stand in the open doorway of John’s bedroom and ache to run his fingers over the places where John’s face softens in sleep, to press his lips against where the near-constant furrow of his brow is smoothed.

          John’s soft sleep shirt has ridden up slightly on the side where their bodies are pressed together, and Sherlock can see the discolored edges of bruises. He pushes the shirt up farther and judges the angle, the force, imagines Sebastian ruthlessly pounding his fists into John’s flesh. The image becomes a memory of Sebastian’s breath huffing against the skin at the hollow of his throat, then the ruin of his face and he remembers shouting at John, at Jane, and he is sick with it suddenly – the slope of Sebastian’s back as he looked over Sherlock’s work, a thin exhale of approval. His hands on Sherlock, all wrong, it was all wrong –

          Sherlock slides John’s legs off his lap and stands as delicately as he can, desperate to get away without waking John.

-

          John wakes alone on the sofa a few hours later. He remembers falling asleep on Sherlock’s lap, warm and content. The air in the flat has changed, somehow – the silence, perhaps. Silence is usually not a good sign from Sherlock. He wanders upstairs to find Sherlock half-leaning from the bedroom window. His heart stutters briefly until he notices the cigarette dangling from Sherlock’s fingers. He was right, then: Danger. He walks to the window and presses himself along back. When Sherlock shudders at the contact, John stretches his arm along Sherlock’s and plucks the cigarette away, stubbing it out on the brick of the exterior wall beneath the window.

          “You’ll quit again now that you’re home.”

          Sherlock nods, turns to rest his head on John’s shoulder. “You never cope with things properly – in what they might call a ‘healthy manner,’ I mean. So you surely won’t insist that I do.”

          John threads his fingers through the thick curls at the back of Sherlock’s head. “I’ll insist that you do what you need to do, as long as you don’t leave me out.”

          “Oh, John. You are an integral part of my unhealthy coping strategy.” Sherlock works John’s shirt over his head and tosses it across the room. He slides to his knees in the blink of an eye and presses kisses to John’s bruises, fingers dipping under the waistband of his trousers. John inhales sharply and Sherlock stops, rests his head on John’s slight belly, hands bracketing his slim hips. John is hardly aroused, Sherlock’s distress evident. He goes to his knees as well and kisses Sherlock soundly. John kisses and strokes Sherlock as if he is a tender, fragile thing, and Sherlock places a hand on John’s back, just to hold on. John has to fight to clamp down on the things expanding inside his chest.

          “I need to erase it. You have to help me, John.”

          “Anything, Sherlock. Anything.”

          And Sherlock believes him. Sentiment – it is a good time for it. Sherlock places a shaking hand in the pocket of his dressing gown and withdraws a small round button emblazoned with “I Believe in Sherlock Holmes” – he’d picked it up from one of the underground stations when he and Jane were hunting Moran. He’d kept it with him every day since he found it, making a slight alteration with a black marker in the middle of the night in a featureless hotel room. He holds it out to John, feeling ridiculous, but knowing that John will understand – will appreciate the statement it makes. John takes it and smiles broadly, unabashedly, the sight of it sending Sherlock’s heart soaring. He slips it back into Sherlock’s pocket. “You keep that. In case you ever forget.” Sherlock shakes his head. “Oh, John. My John. I cannot forget the very bedrock of my existence.” But he closes his hand around it inside his pocket, like a talisman. Sherlock’s scrawl on the shiny surface, “I Believe in John Watson.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this fic was an experience for me. It started as one thing and became an entirely different thing. Thank you all enormously for reading.


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